i 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  MAY. 


HILDEBRAND  AND  CICELY; 


OR, 


SJonh  of 


BY 

M.    A.    PAULL, 

Author  of 

'THE    FLOWER   OF  THE  GRASSMARKET,"     "  TIM'S  TROUBLES,' 
HTC. 


CINCINNATI:  CRANSTON  &  CURTS. 

NEW  YORK :  HUNT  &  EATON. 

1895- 


CONTENTS. 


i. 

PACK 

THE  FRIAR'S  SOLILOQUY i 

II. 
QUEEN  ELPHREDA 9 

III. 
A  ROYAL  TRAGEDY 23 

IV. 
CICELY  AND  HER  FLOWERS 43 

V. 
THE  MAY  QUEEN 53 

VI. 

"YE  HISTORY  OF  YE  GIANT  ORDULPH,  WITH  MANY  AND 
MINUTE  PARTICULARS  OF  YE  FOUNDING  OF  YE  ABBAYE 
OF  TAVYSTOKE" 75 

Vll. 
MISGIVINGS 91 

VIII. 
"YE  STORY  OF  YE  PRIEST  AND  YE  CLOISTER,  TOGETHER 

WITH   SOME  PARTICULARS    RESPECTING    YE     DESTRUC- 
TION OF   YE  ABBAYE  OF   TAVYSTOKE   BY  YE    DANES 

IN   YE  YEAR  997  " IO3 

IX. 
CICELY'S  SECRET      .        .        .        .        ..        .        .        .119 

X. 
THE  PILGRIM  AND  THE  RELICS 139 

XI. 

YE  HISTORY  OF  LIVINGUS,  ABBOT  OF  TAVYSTOKE, 
BISHOP  OF  DEVON,  WHO  JOURNEYED  INTO  ITALY  IN 
YE  COMPANIE  OF  YE  KlNG  CANUTE  YE  DANE  .  .  155 


2137674 


vi  Contents. 

XIL  FACE 

THE  FRIAR  AND  THE  CHILDREN  AT  SCHOOL  .       .        .    173 

XIII. 
AROUND  THE  YULE  Loo 185 

XIV. 
CICELY'S  TROUBLE 201 

XV. 
MY  NAMESAKE  . 213 

XVI. 
THE  STORY  OF  SQUIRE  CHILDE  OF  PLYMSTOKE     .        .    223 

XVII. 
STRANGE  NKWS  FROM  GERMANY 247 

XVIII. 
A  BIRTHDAY  HOLIDAY  AND  A  ROYAL  MARRIAGE    .        .    261 

XIX. 
THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  TAVY 273 

XX. 
A  MORNING  WALK 283 

XXI. 
THE  RECKLESS  DOINGS  OF  THK  KING      ....    293 

XXII. 
MY  SOUL  AND  I 305 

XXIII. 
CICELY'S  OFFER.        .        .  317 

XXIV. 
TURNING  WESTWARD .329 

XXV. 

IlKKK,   THE   CROSS  !      TllERE,   THE  CROWN  I        .  .  .343 


THE  FRIAR'S  SOLILOQUY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    FRIAR'S   SOLILOQUY. 

APRIL  2nd,  1521. — How  beautiful  is  God's  world 
in  this  fair  Devonshire  valley  !  As  I  sat  tran- 
scribing my  missal  this  morning  early,  the  black- 
birds and  thrushes,  robins  and  linnets,  were  far 
busier  than  I  with  their  ministry  of  song.  God's 
preachers  and  teachers  verily,  ordained  and  blessed 
by  the  Highest  Himself  for  the  benefit  and  hap- 
piness of  mankind. 

I  am  well  content,  after  the  too  dazzling  glitter 
and  too  alluring  pleasures  of  society  from  which 
I  have  been  called  to  retire,  that  the  decree  of 
our  Holy  Father  has  made  me  an  inmate  of  this 
spacious  abbey  beside  the  murmuring  rocky  river 
Tavy,  surrounded  by  the  simple  pastoral  folk, 
with  whom  I  am  quite  sure  I  shall  always  be 
friendly.  I  am  glad  I  am  an  Englishman  and 
a  Damnonian,  for  though  I  am  not  a  prophet  I 


4  Friar  Hiidebrand's  Cross. 

know  full  well  that  this  dear  old  land  has  a  pro- 
mise of  higher  and  nobler  good  than  anything 
it  has  yet  realized,  and  Damnonia  *  contains  the 
fairest  scenes  of  any  region  of  it.  Italy  has 
sunnier  skies,  more  cultivation,  more  education, 
more  wealth  ;  and  Rome,  is  it  not  the  very  seat 
of  learning  and  of  religion — the  holy  of  holies  of 
these  later  times  upon  the  earth  ?  Glad  indeed 
am  I  that  I  know  Italy  so  well,  and  have  lived  in 
Rome ;  but  no  less  glad  am  I  that  as  a  humble 
friar  of  our  great  order  of  St.  Augustine,  I  came 
three  years  ago  to  transcribe  and  to  illuminate  my 
missals  in  peace  in  old  Ordulph's  abbey. 

Ah  !  what  a  flash  my  gold  paint  gave  then  as 
the  sunlight  caught  it ;  what  glory  and  beauty 
exist  in  mere  colour ;  what  infinite  pleasure  I  have 
experienced  many  a  time  in  the  rich  carmine, 
and  amber,  and  azure,  and  emerald  hues  with 
which  I  illuminate.  I  have  rendered  a  devout 
thanksgiving  upon  bended  knee  for  the  tints  of  a 
sunset ;  for  the  lurid,  terrible,  dark  beauty  of  the 
sky  in  a  thunderstorm  ;  while  the  rainbow  always 

*  Ancient  name  for  Devon  and  Cornwall. 


The  Friar* s  Soliloquy.  5 

seems  to  me  like  streaks  from  the  Creator's  paint- 
brush on  his  cloud  palette.  The  blue  in  the  eyes 
of  the  cottage  children  who  sport  among  the 
hedgerows,  the  glow  of  crimson  on  their  healthy 
cheeks,  the  warm  tints  on  their  flaxen  hair,  all 
give  me  an  intense  pleasure  which  is  amusing  to 
my  brother  monks,  and  which  they  find  it  difficult 
to  comprehend.  They  call  me  Hildebrand  the 
Dreamer ;  be  it  so,  my  dreams,  my  tastes,  are  so 
full  of  sweetness  and  of  joy  to  my  own  heart  that 
I  would  not  part  with  them  for  all  the  fabled 
riches  of  Aladdin. 

Better,  perchance,  if  I  had  been  more  of  a 
dreamer  hitherto,  less  of  an  actor  in  those  hot 
days  of  passion  and  of  strife,  of  temptation  and 
of  sin,  that  are  numbered  with  the  past. 

It  is  strange  to  me,  and  somewhat  perplexing, 
how  much  the  humanities  of  life  cling  to  me,  even 
now  that  I  have  devoted  myself  to  the  solemn 
security  of  the  cloister.  I  cannot  forget  that  this 
is  my  birthday ;  that  here,  cut  off  from  my  fellows 
by  sacred  vows,  with  all  the  world  shut  out,  I  am 
thirty-one;  in  that  prime  and  fulness  of  manhood 
when  the  duties  and  offices — I  was  going  to  add 


6  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

the  privileges — of  life  come  thickly  upon  the 
shoulders  of  the  men  outside  monastic  walls.  Nor 
can  I  forget  my  young  mother,  the  pride  and  joy 
she  told  me  she  felt  at  my  birth,  her  fading  beauty 
in  my  earliest  childhood,  and  all  the  sad  acces- 
sories that  so  soon  followed — death,  and  the  grave. 
What  part,  what  interest  should  a  friar  take  in 
memories,  even  of  a  mother,  of  a  home?  I  think 
I  must  be  dreaming  again  ! 

What  music  the  river  makes  underneath  my 
small  window  as  it  flows  on  over  its  rocky  bed 
from  its  far-off  spring  in  the  old  Dartmoor  tors. 
Would  that  the  giant  Earl  Ordulph  had  made  larger 
windows  to  his  abbaye,  or  that  after  the  fierce 
Danes  levelled  it  to  the  ground  they  had  made 
some  improvement  in  this  respect  when  they 
rebuilt  it.  Why  not  let  all  that  is  possible  of 
sunshine  and  beauty  enter  and  receive  a  welcome  ? 
When  I  have  finished  this,  my  missal,  I  will  paint 
upon  the  refectory  windows :  they  are  unmistak- 
ably gloomy  and  dull  at  present — so  for  that 
matter  is  our  abbaye  church,  and  the  parish  church 
of  St  Eustace  too. 

I  am  glad  there  is  work  for  me  here ;  I  could 


The  Friar  s  Soliloquy.  7 

not  bear  to  be  an  idle  monk  ;  nothing  but  one 
monotonous  routine  of  prayers  and  meals  and 
ceremonies,  nothing  of  the  toil  of  brain  and  hand 
that  makes  rest  sweet  and  waking  a  delight.  I 
fear  me  much,  too,  that  were  I  to  be  idle,  had  I  no 
employments  congenial  to  my  nature  and  habits, 
I  might  long  unduly  for  that  outside  world  in 
which  men  act  in  so  many  relationships,  where 
they  are  husbands,  fathers,  masters,  citizens,  from 
all  of  which  duties  my  black  robe — nay,  rather 
my  solemn  vows  separate  me. 

April  4th,  1521. — I  came  this  morning  upon  a 
treasure,  yet  quite  by  accident.  While  I  was 
rummaging  in  an  unoccupied  cell  that  is  partly 
filled  with  bundles  of  legal  documents,  some  re- 
lating to  our  order  and  some  to  this  particular 
abbaye,  and  partly  with  old  church  furniture,  I 
found  a  strange  old  pile  of  manuscripts.  They 
have  been  written  by  no  unskilful  pens.  Some 
are  legends  of  the  abbaye,  some  are  historical 
documents  concerning  the  family  of  its  founders. 
I  have  determined  to  transcribe  them  all  in  order, 
having  obtained  the  sanction  of  our  prior,  and  to 
furnish  them  with  suggestive  illuminations.  The 


8  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

earliest,  which  is  the  story  of  the  Lady  Elphreda, 
furnishes  especially  good  subjects  for  my  illustra- 
tions. Alas !  poor  womankind,  how  frail,  how  sad 
their  history  !  The  paper  of  these  manuscripts  is 
already  brown  with  age,  yet  the  caligraphy  thereof 
is  in  a  most  clerkly  hand.  I  shall  gladly  rescue 
the  different  stories  from  the  further  decay  of 
time. 


CHAPTER  II. 

QUEEN  ELPHREDA. 

[COPY  OF  ANCIENT   MANUSCRIPT.] 

YE  story  of  Queen  Elphreda,  daughter  to  Orgar, 
Duke  of  Devon,  and  sister  to  Ordulph  the  giant, 
both  of  Tavystoke,  who  were  joint  founders  of  ye 
said  renowned  Abbaye.  - 

This  ladye,  even  in  her  earliest  youth,  was  a 
mayden  of  the  most  faire  countenance,  and  easilie 
provoked  the  homage  of  mankind  ;  withal  she  had 
a  ready  tongue,  a  sharp  witte,  and  a  haughtie 
spirit,  that  accepted  admiration  as  her  simple  due. 
Of  a  wholly  differente  spirit  was  her  close  com- 
panion and  chiefe  friende  Ethel,  her  cousin,  child 
to  the  dead  sister  of  the  Duchesse  Winifried, 
mother  of  the  prouder  beautie.  Yet  were  both 
these  damozells  wondrous  faire  and  goodlie  to 
look  unto,  with  the  bloom  of  the  peach  on  theii 


12  Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

Boft-rounded  cheeks,  the  heavens'  own  hue  caught 
and  held  willing  captive  in  their  bright  eyes ; 
while  for  ripe  red  lips  and  sunnie  haire  the  ladye 
Elphreda  did  merely  exceed  her  fair  cousine  as 
one  star  may  shine  somewhat  brighter  than 
another  on  one  of  the  frosty  nights  in  winter. 
So  it  was  more  because  of  the  shining  and  the 
sparkling  than  the  beautie  itselfe  that  the  Duke's 
daughter  was  the  most  talked  of.  Beside,  she 
was  a  duke's  daughter,  and  the  faire  Ethel  of 
somewhat  meaner,  though  none  the  less  ancient 
parentage. 

Howbeit,  the  fame  of  Elphreda  must  needs 
reach  the  ears  of  the  king  (and  kings  and  princes 
are  ever  greedy  of  beauteous  women),  who  forth- 
with sent  into  these  parts  a  trusty  favourite  of 
his,  if  any  favourite  may  be  deemed  trusty  in  love 
matters,  to  spy  the  land  and  its  inhabitants,  and 
to  bring  him  word  again  concerning  its  luscious 
fruits  and  tempting  appetisers,  which  done,  if  the 
fruit  were  goodlie  enough,  and  as  faire  as  report 
said,  he  would  speedilie  follow  thereafter,  and 
pluck  it  for  his  own  diversion  and  delight.  This 
messenger,  none  other  than  an  earle,  and  that  of 


Queen  Elphreda.  13 

East  Anglia,  named  Ethelwold,  being  come  to 
the  palace  of  Duke  Orgar,  in  this  agreeable  and 
convenient  town  of  Tavystoke,  did  straightway 
present  himself  at  the  ducal  court,  wherein  shone 
the  resplendent  lovelinesse  of  the  faire  Elphreda 
as  its  chief  ornament  and  luminary,  together  with 
that,  her  lovely  satellite,  the  gentler  Ethel. 

Now  let  us  listen  awhile  to  the  discourse  between 
these  beauteous  maydens,  when,  after  some  talk, 
and  many  glances,  and  divers  gay  festivities 
with  the  handsome  earle,  they  seek  their  couch 
together  for  the  night.  With  playful  grace  they 
shake  adown  their  sunlit  tresses,  which,  could 
earle  or  king  but  thus  behold,  they  had  been  as 
golden  nets  to  catch  their  easie  hearts.  Dain- 
tilie  their  little  feet,  white  as  the  driven  snow, 
speed  when  loosed  from  the  prisons  of  their  heavy 
shoon,  o'er  the  fresh  strewn  rushes  of  their  chamber 
floor,  and  meekly  with  reverend  brow  sweet  Ethel 
kneels  before  the  little  shrine  to  offer  up  her 
prayers  to  the  dear  Lord  Christ. 

Elphreda  pauses  too,  and  kneels  with  a  sly 
thought  the  while :  "  How  faire  I  looke !  My 
haire,  like  sunset  cloud  of  gold,  enwraps  my  form. 


14  Friar  Hildebrand *s  Cross. 

Surely  e'en  God  himself  must  think  me  wondrous 
beautiful ! " 

And  so  her  prayers,  bestrewed  with  such  rank, 
conscious  pride,  but  do  her  harm,  and  Ethel  is 
most  blessed.  Then,  in  each  other's  arms  close 
laid,  the  maydens  sink  to  rest,  yet  talk  awhile 
much  of  Earle  Ethelwold  and  the  day's  sports,  and 
that  great  court  of  our  great  Saxon  King  Edgar 
the  noble,  from  whose  gaiety  and  joyes  the  earle 
is  fresh  arrived. 

"  Ah,  Ethel,  if  I  were  but  there,"  sighs  Elphreda, 
"  then  would  my  beauty  shine,  then  should  I  reach 
ambition's  highest  boon.  I  fain  would  be  the  wife 
of  this  great  man,  so  should  I  bask  in  his  exalted 
rank,  and  make  the  mightiest  grateful  for  my 
smile. 

"  Sooner  would  I  enrich  some  humbler  home, 
wherein  my  presence  was  the  brightest  thing," 
rejoined  faire  Ethel ;  "  be  the  gladness  of  a  lonely 
heart,  the  light  of  saddened  eyes,  the  joy  of  droop- 
ing spirits,  the  one  golden  coin  in  life's  dark  copper 
mint,  the  vibrating,  sympathizing  chord  to  some 
true  heart  in  life's  sad  discord.  To  make  home 
happy,  my  dear  husband  smile,  and  fold  my  babes 


Queen  Elphreda.  15 

rejoicing  in  my  armes,  such  be  my  happy  lot ! 
1  ask  no  mighty  rank,  no  power  to  reign  in  every 
courtly  hall  triumphant  by  my  smiles,  with  power 
to  break  a  heart  by  cold  disdain  or  chilling  glance. 
Elphreda,  thy  grand  majestic  of  mien,  thy  rich  and 
gorgeous  beautie  fit  thee  well  for  court  or  camp, 
for  pageantry  and  pride.  I  have  but  fairnesse 
for  a  humble  lot,  and  this  do  I  desire.  Proud 
Ethelwold  already  owns  thy  sway.  I  saw  him 
blush  and  stammer  like  a  boy  when  thou  didst 
dart  thy  silvery  witte  at  him,  he  could  not  soon 
recover,  but  cried  '  Peace !  Oh  let  me  make  my 
peace  with  thee,  fair  dame.'  * 

"  Ah  !  was  it  so  ?  "  Elphreda  smiling  asked,  well 
pleased  to  find  her  triumph  sudden,  swift  as  flight 
of  summer  bird  upon  the  wing,  and  that  the  gentle 
Ethel  marked  it  well. 

And  then  she  turned  her  on  her  easie  bed,  and 
sleep  came  down  upon  the  two  faire  forms.  With 
many-coloured  dreams  Elphreda  slept,  but  Ethel's 
dream  was  of  the  one  she  loved. 

So  sped  the  days  at  old  Duke  Orgar's  court, 
and  Earle  Ethelwold  daily  found  himself  the  more 
enwrapped  in  his  love  unto  the  glorious  mayden 


1 6  Friar  Hildebrand 's  Cross. 

Elphreda  ;  the  while  she  to-day  haughtie,  to-mor- 
row yielding,  the  next  day  wilful,  and  after  that 
most  winning,  kept  him  in  continual  fret  and  fume, 
and  yet  he  did  but  more  and  more  determine  with 
each  new  grace  and  each  fresh  torment  to  keep  her 
for  himself,  and  not  acquaint  his  master  with  the 
magnitude  of  her  charms.  Yet  could  he  not  find 
heart  to  tear  himself  away  from  the  proud  beautie 
and  her  winsomenesse,  and  when  she  cut  him  with 
the  keen  edge  of  her  saucie  witte,  or  mocked  at  his 
love  in  her  soft  liquid  voice,  every  note  of  which 
made  music  to  his  charmed  ears,  he  wished  that 
there  were  no  king's  courts  in  the  world,  and  that 
he  and  Elphreda  were  the  Adam  and  Eve  of 
their  own  paradise.  Howbeit  dutie  forbade  the 
immediate  indulgence  of  his  hopes, though  he  so  far 
prospered  in  his  suit  that  e'er  he  left  he  ventured 
to  advance  his  claims  to  the  faire  Elphreda,  and 
beheld  her  somewhat  moved  by  the  strength  and 
sinceritie  of  his  passion — for  what  woman,  even 
if  her  heart  were  no  bigger  than  that  of  the  bird 
that  listens  willingly  to  the  love-song  of  her 
mate,  can  hear  man's  earnest  love  pleaded  by  his 
earnest  lips  without  strange  feelings  of  emotion  ? 


Queen  Elphreda.  17 

Truly,  not  the  Saxon  mayden  of  whom  we  write, 
for  was  not  her  strong  vanitie  satisfied  even  more 
than  her  weak  heart,  when  she  found  the  list  of  her 
attractions  to  flow  so  swiftly  and  smoothly  from 
her  lover's  tongue.  Nor  was  the  duke  of  different 
mind  unto  his  daughter.  "  Get  but  thy  king's 
consent,"  said  he  to  the  earle,  "unto  this  union, 
and  thou  wilt  have  my  blessing." 

Therewith  Ethelwold  sets  out  and  comes  unto 
the  court  of  King  Edgar  with  an  assumed  open 
countenance,  and  "  What  news  ?  "  quoth  the  king. 
"  Hath  the  fame  of  her  beautie  surpassed  that 
beautie  itself?" 

"  In  truth  she  is  very  faire ;  but  nothing  an- 
swerable to  that  which  hath  been  told  of  her,  and 
which  your  Majestic  hath  heard,"  said  the  Earle. 
"  She  is  not  fitted  to  be  the  equal  of  a  king ;  yet 
would  I,  in  order  to  raise  my  fortunes,  seek  thy 
grace  to  wed  her  mine  own  self,  she  and  Duke 
Orgar  being  willing  thereunto." 

"  Then  must  I  seek  further  for  my  paragon  of 
beautie  ? "  said  the  gracious  king  with  a  smile ; 
"take  her  and  wed  her  if  thou  wilt,  good  Ethel- 
wold." 


1 8  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

With  which  permission,  coming  again  to  Tavy- 
stoke  and  to  the  ladye  of  his  heart,  the  earle  and 
Elphreda  were  wed,  the  marriage  feast  being 
solemnized  with  great  rejoicings  in  the  palace  ol 
Orgar,  and  the  appointments  of  Elphreda  and 
her  cousin  Ethel,  who  acted  as  her  chosen  friend, 
were  much  to  be  admired  withal  for  gorgeousnesse 
and  richnesse  of  costume  and  costlinesse  of  decora- 
tion, the  bride  herself  being  robed  with  rarest  grace, 
and  fragrant  with  sweet  nards  and  spices,  such  as 
befitted  a  king's  spouse  rather  than  that  of  an 
earle.  Her  golden  haire  was  powdered  with  dia- 
monds, so  that  it  seemed  as  if  she  carried  a  veri- 
table sun  upon  her  white  and  glistening  shoulders  • 
her  head  did  so  flash  and  dazzle  the  beholder's 
eyes.  The  snow  of  the  pearl  and  the  crimson  of  the 
ruby  lay  in  close  contrast  in  the  necklace  upon 
her  breast ;  rich  jewels,  "  glittering  like  stars," 
depended  from  her  daintie  ears,  while  her  white 
robes  gleamed  like  the  garments  of  heaven  in 
their  beautie  around  her. 

Earle  Ethelwold,  seeing  her  thus  magnificent, 
could  but  own  with  trembling  fear  that  she  would 
have  graced  the  crown  she  might  have  won  and 


Queen  Elphreda.  19 

worn.  "  Yet  will  she  be  the  happier  as  my  wife," 
quoth  he  unto  himself,  glad  to  excuse  himself,  even 
though  he  had  wronged  her  future  by  his  love. 

Neare  to  the  bride  in  simpler  grace,  like  unto 
a  flower  beside  a  star,  stood  Ethel,  the  orphan 
mayden,  with  the  sunlight  on  her  golden  haire,  and 
smiles  upon  her  coral  lips,  and  one  costly  diamond 
glittering  on  her  snowy  bosom,  new  to  her  that 
day,  and  given  by  the  one  she  thought  of  in  her 
sleep.  Behold  the  mysteries  of  love  !  Beside  the 
far-famed  wooing  of  Earle  Ethelwold  and  glorious 
Elphreda,  there  sprung  up  within  these  palace  walls 
a  sweeter  love-making,  a  truer  joy,  the  which  it 
behoves  me  to  touch  upon  here,  though  I  am 
minded  to  descant  more  at  large  upon  the  same  at 
some  future  time.  Giant  Ordulph,  the  great  duke's 
greater  son,  had  heart  so  large  it  matched  unto  his 
body,  which  was  of  most  prodigious  size,  and  if  I 
here  relate  his  exploites,  it  will  but  convince  the 
curious  of  his  mightinesse,  a  thing  famed  not  only 
throughout  our  Saxon  Heptarchy,  but  throughout 
other  and  more  distant  lands. 

He  would  stride  in  mere  playful  pastime  acrosse 
the  faire  River  Tamar,  where  it  is  full  ten  feet  broad, 


2O  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

and  by  merely  changing  the  position  of  his  huge 
hands  export,  as  if  he  were  a  bridge,  vast 
numbers  of  people  acrosse,  at  great  convenience 
to  them  and  no  inconvenience  to  himself,  being 
thus  bridge,  ferry,  and  merchantman  in  one. 
Here  standing,  he  would  also  "cut  off  the  heads  of 
many  little  wild  beastes,  being  brought  unto  him, 
and  throw  them  into  the  water,"  sending  these 
their  heads  seawards,  while  he  preserved  the  fur  of 
their  soft  coats  for  an  excellent  covering  in 
winter. 

Yet  a  more  noticeable  exploit  is  recorded  ot 
him,  that  being  once  travelling  with  that  august 
and  pious  King  Edward  the  Confessor,  to  whom 
he  was  of  kin,  and  having  arrived  at  the  city  of 
Exeter  without  any  one  to  expect  their  coming, 
they  found  the  gates  shut  and  barred,  and  the 
porter  absent ;  when  this  modern  Samson,  this 
Damnonian  Hercules  broke  the  bars  in  pieces  with 
seeming  ease,  and  then,  "  being  warmed  to  the 
work,"  broke  the  hinges  with  a  kick  of  his  huge 
feet,  and  thus  laid  the  gates  open  to  afford  passage 
to  the  king  and  himself.  Whereat  the  king  ex- 
claimed jocularly,  "Twas  done  by  the  strength  of 


Queen  Elphreda.  21 

the  devil,  and  not  by  the  power  of  man."  A  speech 
scarcely    welcome    perchance  to    Earle  Ordulph's 

ears,  since  he  was  more    eminent    for  piety  even 

than  for   strength,  and   his  virtue  and  regard  for 

religion    kept     equal    pace    with    his  monstrous 
measurements 


A  ROYAL  TRAGEDY. 


CHAPTER   III. 

A  ROYAL    TRAGEDY. 

HERE  have  I  somewhat  wandered  from  my  subject 
to  speak  of  the  brother  insteade  of  the  sister,  and 
now  also  must  I  recount  further  the  great  love  of 
this  great  man  Ordulph  for  his  faire  cousin  in  her 
pure  sweet  beautie,  a  love  that  as  it  was  far  less 
notorious  than  that  of  Ethelwold  and  Elphreda, 
so  was  it  also  far  more  happy  and  more  enduring. 
Ethel,  though  she  felt  herself  so  small  a  thing  in 
comparison  with  Ordulph's  greatnesse,  and  so 
meanlie  beautiful  in  comparison  with  Elphreda's 
gorgeousnesse,  was,  as  we  shall  see,  of  sufficient 
lovelinesse  to  captivate  this  giant  heart,  and  to 
subdue  this  loftie  man  to  do  her  smallest  bidding, 
nor  could  he  feel  himself  happy  save  when  he 
basked  in  the  light  of  her  smile. 

The  wedding  of  Earle  Ethelwold  and  the  beau- 
tiful   Elphreda    being    solemnized   in   the   parish 


26  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

church  of  Tavystoke,  which  is  dedicated  to  St 
Eustace,  and  all  matters  being  for  the  present 
amicable  between  the  paire,  the  earle  settles  down 
with  great  alacritie  in  the  palace  of  his  father-in- 
law,  desiring  nothing  more  than  to  keep  his  prize 
at  a  safe  distance  from  the  court  of  his  sovereign, 
and  to  treasure  the  bootie  he  has  secured  unto 
himself.  The  while  she  soon  begins  to  fret  herself 
somewhat,  and  to  complaine  unto  her  cousin  EtheJ 
that  the  world  is  no  wider  to  her  now  than  when 
she  was  but  a  daughter,  not  a  wife,  and  that  she 
deems  a  favourite  should  not  separate  himselfe  so 
long  from  his  master  lest  he  lose  his  place.  In 
truth,  she  desires  nothing  so  much  as  to  shine  at 
court,  and  is  in  no  way  favourable  to  the  seclusion 
in  which  her  lord  keepeth  her. 

About  this  time  rumour  reaches  the  king  that 
he  has  been  duped  by  his  trustie  earle,  that  the 
ladye  Elphreda  is  more  beautiful  by  far,  even 
than  he  had  before  heard,  and  that  there  is  not 
a  ladye  at  court  to  be  compared  to  the  bride 
of  Ethehvold.  Not  to  be  duped  again,  the  king 
sets  forth  himselfe  on  his  journey,  and  sends 
word  to  his  favourite  that,  being  in  their  neigh- 


A  Royal  Tragedy.  27 

bourhood — namelie,  at  Exeter — he  will  delight 
himself  with  the  sight  of  him,  in  his  newlie-found 
happinesse,  and  have  a  day's  sport  with  him  and 
his  father-in-law  in  their  parks,  or,  still  sooner, 
in  the  forest  of  Dartmoor,  near  adjoyninge. 

Who  shall  paint  the  miserie  of  the  unhappy 
earle,  who,  having  hitherto  deceived  his  master, 
now  mistrusts  only  too  surelie  that  he  is  being 
deceived  in  turn  ?  He  appeals  to  Elphreda, 
confesses  all,  and  thereafter  discovers  that  in 
no  other  quarter  could  he  expect  less  aid.  He 
with  faire  words  and  much  adjuration  of  his 
love  for  her,  speaks  thus  : — 

"  As  the  richest  diamond,  rough  and  uncut, 
yields  neither  sparkle  nor  esteem,  and  gold  un- 
burnished  gives  no  better  lustre  than  base  brass, 
so  beautie  of  feature  clad  in  mean  arraye  is,  or 
slightlie  looked  at,  or  wholly  unregarded,  so  true 
is  the  adage  of  old  that  'cloth  is  the  man,  and 
man  the  wretch.'  To  prevent,  therefore,  the  thing 
I  fear,  and  that  is  like  to  prove  my  present  ruine 
and  thy  future  shame,  conceal  thy  great  beautie 
from  King  Edgar's  eye,  and  give  him  entertain- 
ment in  thy  gravest  attire.  Let  thy  matronly 

3 


28  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

robes,  I  pray  thee,  be  as  the  nightlie  curtaines 
drawn  about  our  new  nuptial  bed,  and  the  dailie 
clouds  to  hide  thy  splendent  sun  from  his  sharp 
and  too  piercing  een,  the  rays  whereof  would 
soon  set  his  waxen  wings  on  fire,  that  readye 
are  to  melt  at  a  far  softer  heat." 

All  which  wise  advice  he  made  as  he  hoped 
the  more  powerful  by  tender  embraces  and  fond 
kisses,  and  so  left  her  to  prepare  himself  to  meet 
the  king.  She,  being  now  alone,  felt  the  burn- 
ing passion  of  her  vanitie  to  grow  strong  within 
her,  and  that  love  she  had  imagined  she  yielded 
to  Earle  Ethelwold,  became  changed  forthwith 
into  angry  hate. 

"  Hath  my  beautie,"  she  thought,  "  been  courted 
by  a  king,  and  by  the  mouth  of  fame  compared 
with  that  of  Helen,  and  must  it  now  be  hid  ? 
Must  I  falsifye  and  belye  Nature's  bountie,  mine 
own  value,  and  all  men's  reports,  only  to  save 
kis  credit  who  hath  impaired  mine,  and  selfishly 
belyed  my  worth.  And  must  I  needs  defoul 
myself  to  be  his  only  faire  fool,  that  hath  dis- 
pitefullie  kept  me  from  the  seat  and  state  of 
a  queen  ?  However  he  may  answer  it  to  the 


A  Royal  Tragedy.  29 

king1,  his  master,  to  me  the  injury  is  beyond 
repair,  who  thus  hath  bubbled  me  with  a  coronet 
insteade  of  a  crown,  and  made  me  a  subject  who, 
ere  this,  should  have  been  a  sovereign.  It  can 
be  no  blame  in  me  to  make  the  most  of  Nature's 
largesses  and  Art's  accomplishments,  when  I 
falsifye  no  trust,  and  only  with  the  sun  (to  which 
the  earle  is  pleased  to  liken  me)  show  the  beams, 
which,  do  what  I  can,  will  not  be  hid,  nor  at 
this  time  shall  be,  be  the  event  what  will." 

So,  calling  for  her  cousin  Ethel,  she  disposed 
herself  as  beauteouslie  as  on  her  marriage  morn, 
awakening  no  surprise  within  that  tender  may- 
den's  breast,  who  knew  no  reason  wherefore 
Elphreda  should  not  shine,  and  thought  she 
did  but  rightlie  desire  to  honour  the  king  who 
had  shown  so  many  favours  unto  her  husband. 

Behold  the  ladye,  therefore,  ablaze  in  her  rich 
violet  velvet  robe,  with  every  gem  that  had 
heightened  her  beautie  in  the  past,  and  an  ad- 
ditional diamond  or  two  from  out  her  -mother's 
casket  to  dazzle  and  sparkle  the  more  in  her 
king's  eyes.  Behold  her  in  the  hall  of  Duke 
Orgar's  palace,  the  centre  of  the  little  group 


30  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

that  stands  to  welcome  the  advancing  king  on 
his  return  from  the  hunt,  the  fair  whitenesse  of 
her  skin  only  less  shining  than  the  jewels  that  lie 
upon  it,  her  sapphire  eyes  alight  with  exultant 
pride,  her  arched  neck  regal  in  its  beautie  ;  withal 
her  snowy  arms,  her  rippling  golden  hair,  what 
wonder  was  it  that  King  Edgar  saw  no  other 
sight  than  this  bride  of  Earle  Ethelwold,  and 
heard  no  other  sound  than  the  soft  music  of  her 
voice,  in  which  she  bade  him  welcome  ?  Kings 
are  but  mortal  men. 

Earle  Ethelwold's  handsome  face  reflected  not 
the  brightnesse  of  his  young  wife's ;  he  saw  the 
king's  impassioned  gaze ;  he  saw  the  mantling 
blush  upon  Elphreda's  cheek,  and  muttered  to 
himself,  "  My  doom  is  fixed."  The  old  story 
in  the  Jewish  scriptures  has  henceforth  a  new 
reading.  There  were  another  David,  another 
Bathsheba,  and  another  Uriah.  With  much  craft 
the  king,  after  his  first  pardonable  outburst  of 
admiration,  skilfullie  withdrew  his  open  gaze  from 
the  ravishinge  beautie  of  the  ladye,  while  at  the 
same  time,  he  fed  her  vanitie  by  secret  glances 
of  love,  and  made  her  husband  more  and  more 


A  Royal  Tragedy.  31 

odious  in  her  eyes.  Another  hunt  was  determined 
upon  for  the  next  day,  and  a  party,  amongst 
whom  was  the  earle,  attended  the  king  to  the 
Dartmoor  forest. 

"  Now  will  we  ride  on  together,"  quoth  the 
king.  "  How  faire  a  prize  hast  thou  in  thy  beau- 
teous wife,  my  earle !  Thou  hast  trulie  good 
right  to  love  thy  present  habitation,  since  not 
e'en  a  king  can  triumph  over  thee  in  thy  posses- 
sion of  so  faire  a  dame." 

Far  through  the  great  forest  these  two  have 
ridden  on  alone. 

"  What  sport  to-day,  Ethelwold  ?  "  quoth  Edgar 
then.  "  Methinks  thou  art  sad ;  do  just  behold 
those  mightie  trees  above  us,  how  they  bend 
and  bow,  obedient  to  the  autumn  winds,  hearest 
thou  that  moaning  in  the  great  tree  tops,  as  if 
imprisoned  spirits  dwelt  therein  ?  " 

"I  do,  my  king." 

"And  now  the  birds  shall  hear  another  sound," 
quoth  Edgar,  running  at  the  earle,  his  javelin 
pointed  at  his  breast,  his  flashing  eyes  more  full 
of  scorn  than  Ethelwold  had  ever  seen  them 
before.  "  Deceiver,  thou  who  darest  to  take  to 


32  Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

wife  a  woman  fitted  only  for  a  king,"  he  cried, 
"  and  with  loud  lies  to  beg  for  my  consent,  that, 
had  I  known  all,  I  never  would  have  given.  Thus, 
thus  thou  diest,  and  I  take  my  rights." 

"Great  God,  thus  I  die,"  exclaimed  the  earle 
solemnlie,  too  hastillie  smitten  to  find  remedy. 
"  Thus  I  die,  the  victim  of  my  wife's  vanitie,  alas  ! 
unshriven  in  my  sins,  and  thou  takest  to  thy 
bosom  a " 

He  could  say  no  more,  but  dropped  upon  the 
ground  under  the  forest  trees,  and  there  was 
sudden  riding  to  and  fro,  and  the  king,  with 
loud  wailings  and  lamentation,  did  deplore  his 
own  fate,  who  thus  had  lost  a  friend  by  cruel 
mischance,  and  at  first  only  the  great  God  who 
heareth  the  truth  hidden  behind  all  the  false 
words  of  men,  knew  that  a  king  spoke  lies.  But 
by-and-by,  when  Edgar  so  soon  solaced  himself 
and  the  faire  widow  of  the  earle,  by  his  open 
love  for  her,  men  told  themselves  that  he  had 
slain  his  favourite  with  his  own  hand,  to  possess 
that  of  the  beautiful  Elphreda.  She  vvillinglie, 
because  of  that  vaine,  ambitious  heart  of  hers, 
exchanged  her  father's  palace  at  Tavystoke  for 


A   Royal  Tragedy.  33 

the  king's  court,  and  ruled  her  royal  husband 
with  an  unsparing  hand,  eager  to  plot  and  con- 
trive, and  use  her  beautie  to  create  her  power; 
and  a  harsh  stepmother  ever  to  the  young  Prince 
Edward,  son  of  her  dead  predecessor  in  the  king's 
affections  and  throne.  And  to  King  Edgar  and 
the  Queen  Elphreda  were  born  two  sons :  one  was 
named  Edmund,  and  died  in  infancie  almost 
before  his  mother  had  begun  to  plot  for  his  ad- 
vancement ;  the  other,  named  Ethelred,  for  whose 
future  his  mother  did  risk  the  fate  of  her  own 
soul  in  her  ambition  for  his  greatnesse.  And  the 
king  did  often  recall  the  half-uttered  words  of 
his  dying  earle,  and  acknowledge  unto  himself 
that  he  had  done  amiss,  to  exchange  the  services 
of  a  faithful  servant  for  the  possession  of  a  queen 
who,  though  she  had  the  beautie  of  an  angel,  had 
likewise  the  pride  of  Lucifer  himself,  and  studied 
the  rather  to  acquire  her  own  honour  and  renown 
than  to  make  his  peace.  Nor  is  it  to  be  expected 
that  she  should  have  a  restful  conscience,  who 
had  acted  treacherouslie  to  her  dead  lord,  and 
who  had  thereby  lost  much  of  the  good  opinion 
and  hearty  love  of  her  faire  cousin  Ethel,  who 


34  Friar  Hildebrand 's  Cross. 

had    not    hesitated    to  remonstrate  sharplie  with 
her  upon  the  matter. 

Howbeit,  after  some  eight  years  of  wedded  life 
with  Elphreda,  the  king  died,  not  without  much 
anxietie,  as  may  be  well  believed  in  his  last 
moments,  respecting  the  future  of  his  sons,  too 
well  knowing  the  temper  of  the  queen  to  trust  to 
any  generositie  on  her  part.  To  him  succeeded 
of  right,  the  young  Edward,  now  thirteen  years 
of  age,  eldest  son  of  the  dead  Edgar,  the  which 
Elphreda  could  not  endure,  whilst  her  own  child 
Ethelred  was  nothing  more  than  a  prince.  "  Why 
art  not  thou  the  king,  my  brave,  bold  boy,  and  I, 
thy  mother,  regent  in  thy  youth  ? "  Thus  often 
in  her  heart  Elphreda  spake,  the  while  she  mused 
and  planned,  and  planned  and  mused  again,  yet 
seeing  nothing  she  could  as  yet  do  to  hasten  what 
her  soul  desired.  But  after  three  years  had  sped, 
she  being  at  Corff  Castle  in  the  Isle  of  Purbeck, 
King  Edward  conieth  near  unto,  hunting  there- 
abouts ;  and  he  from  love  to  his  child-brother  and 
respect  unto  his  father's  memory  in  the  person 
of  his  widow,  cometh  hither  to  visit  the  queen 
and  prince.  Whom  Elphreda  receiveth  with  out- 


A  Royal  Tragedy.  35 

stretched  arms  and  faire  words,  and  she  being 
still  young,  still  beautiful,  and  now  above  measure 
courteous,  King  Edward  admireth  more  than  had 
been  his  wont,  and  descending  from  his  horse, 
held  much  pleasant  converse  with  the  paire,  caress- 
ing Ethelred,  and  telling  him  when  he  was  older 
grown,  he  should  share  his  diversions  in  field  and 
forest ;  should  shoot  his  arrows,  and  throw  his 
javelin  ;  the  boy,  meanwhile,  runneth  hither  and 
thither  with  eager  face,  and  pretty  readinesse  to 
show  his  warlike  toys.  Yet  all  this  time,  under 
such  faire  seeming,  the  mother's  heart  grew  black 
and  blacker  within  her ;  all  the  evil  things  she 
had  ever  dreamed  of  in  regard  to  young  Edward 
crowded  fast  upon  her  brain.  She  saw  in  this 
friendlie  visit  but  an  occasion  to  advance  her  son, 
and  found  too  easie  a  varlet  ready  to  obey  her 
wishes. 

Things  being  thus  hastilie  prepared,  she  at  the 
gate  presenteth  to  her  stepson  the  loving-cup  at 
parting,  with  many  kind  and  pleasant  words  and 
glances,  fascinating  by  her  faire  beautie  the  eyes 
of  the  young  king,  as  she  had  before  time  charmed 
the  king  his  father.  "  None  but  herself  should 


36  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

offer  that  cup  to  her  lord  and  master,"  quoth  she, 
with  a  sweet  smile,  and  stood  before  him,  humblye, 
to  receive  back  the  golden  goblet,  after  he  had 
raised  it  to  his  lips,  and  drained  it  in  her  honour. 
Yet  while  he  drank,  a  sudden  pain  seizes  him,  as 
well  it  might,  the  fruit  of  a  hidden  stab  in  his 
back,  which  wounded  him  mortallie  ;  so  letting  fall 
the  goblet,  which  dropped  into  Queen  Elphreda's 
outstretched  hand,  he  cries  aloud,  "  Treacherie ! 
treacherie ! "  and  sets  spurs  to  his  noble  charger, 
making  all  speed  to  get  back  to  his  companions 
in  the  hunt,  who  were  at  no  great  distance.  But 
sudden  loss  of  blood  made  his  strength  to  fail, 
and  so,  falling  from  his  seat,  he  frighted  his  good 
horse,  and  it  dashed  on  with  him  through  wood 
and  brake,  dragging  his  master,  one  of  whose  feet 
was  but  too  firmly  held  in  the  stirrup ;  till  making 
a  circuit  in  his  terror,  he  never  stops  till  the  dead, 
mangled,  bruised,  and  bleeding  body  is  laide  out- 
side Corff  Gate. 

Now  are  there  well-feigned  terror  and  surprise ; 
swift  riding  forth  of  messengers  to  announce  the 
king's  death,  weeping  and  lamentation  within  the 
castle  ;  the  queen  regrets  her  step-son's  untimelie 


A  Royal  Tragedy.  37 

end  with  many  tears,  and  bewails  his  youthful 
beautie  and  comelinesse  as  if  she  had  done  no- 
thing to  hasten  their  ruine,  the  while  she  makes 
great  gifts  unto  her  accomplices  to  shield  her 
from  the  guilt  of  her  vile  deed. 

So  is  Prince  Ethelred  through  his  mother's 
crime  exalted  unto  the  throne,  but  before  he  is  to 
be  crowned  the  truth  cometh  to  be  known,  both 
by  the  whispers  of  her  confidants  and  her  own 
remorse,  which,  vain,  ambitious,  as  she  hath  al- 
readye  been,  will  not  allow  her  to  commit  this 
act  in  peace.  She  sendeth  in  sore  trouble  and 
hot  haste  back  to  the  old  home  in  Tavystoke, 
where  now  liveth  her  giant  brother  Ordulph — their 
father,  the  Duke  Orgar  being  dead — and  his  sweet 
ladye  Ethel,  together  with  their  young  and  most 
fair  progenie.  And  the  queen  willeth  that  Ethel 
may  be  sent  unto  her  with  all  speed,  having  much 
and  of  great  import  to  declare  unto  her.  There- 
fore, Ethel  setteth  out,  and  arriving  at  Corff 
Castle,  a  great  way  from  her  own  home  and  her 
pretty  babes,  findeth  Elphreda  in  sore  distresse, 
nor  can  she  know  peace  until  she  hath  fully 
opened  her  actions  unto  her  cousin  in  all  their 


38  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

deformitie  and  hideous  wickednesse  ;  the  which 
she  does,  now  with  haughtie,  flushed  face,  and 
again  with  quivering  lip  and  tearful  eye,  being 
distracted  between  her  mind  and  her  heart,  and 
not  at  all  ignorant  of  the  enormitie  of  the  crime 
which  she  had  committed. 

To  whom  Ethel :  "  Alas !  my  cousin,  thou  canst 
not  make  reparation  for  this  dreadful  deed  to  him 
who  hath  been  the  great  sufferer  therein  ;  neither 
canst  thou  avoid  the  temporarie  benefit  that 
ariseth  to  thy  son  here  bye  ;  but  alack  !  much  I 
fear  that  he  will  have  sore  trouble  in  the  crown 
that  is  thus  earlie  and  wickedlie  forced  upon  his 
young  head  :  and  that  thou,  his  mother,  hath,  by 
thy  rashnesse  and  crueltie,  made  life  a  heavie 
burden  to  the  poor  child,  for  whose  advance  thou 
hast  risked  thy  soul's  joy.  Oh !  my  Elphreda, 
honour  and  glory  are  too  dearlie  bought,  if  we 
pay  for  them  with  our  happinesse  and  peace  of 
heart" 

"  But,  tell  me,  Ethel,  what  I  now  must  do." 
"Dearest   cousin,   nothing    remaineth    for    thee 
but    to    expiate    thy    grievous    offence    by    sore 
penance :  thou  must  put  on   the  white  robe,  and 


A  Royal,   Tragedy.  39 

walk  with  the  bare  feet  of  the  penitent  around 
our  Ladye's  shrines ;  so  shall  thy  poore  soule  be 
eased  of  some  part  of  its  burden,  and  thou  wilt 
be  preserved  to  the  communion  of  thy  Church. 

This,  which  her  cousin  suggested,  did  her  con- 
fessor insist  upon. 

And  now,  behold  this  beauteous  woman,  with 
the  golden  sunshine  of  her  hair,  hiding  her  face, 
which  works  with  all  the  troubled  thoughts  within  . 
her  breast  ;  robed  in  the  humblest  garb  that 
mortals  wear,  even  the  robes  of  penance ;  her 
jewels  laid  aside,  her  small  feet  bare.  Hear  the 
sad  confessions  of  her  lips,  that  she  hath  been 
guiltie  of  murder,  and  that  against  her  king ;  and 
then  profit  withal,  lest  thou,  too,  however  high 
thou  art  in  pride  and  majestic,  shouldest  have  to 
stoop  so  low  through  the  unbridling  of  thy  fierce 
passions. 

And  when  this  penance  was  accomplished,  the 
coronation  took  place  of  the  young  Prince  Ethel- 
red,  a  child  but  twelve  years  of  age,  on  whom  his 
mother's  guilt  had  laid  so  earlie  the  weight  of  a 
crown  ;  when,  as  in  the  qualitie  which  his  subjects 
did  attach  unto  his  name,  he  was  still,  in  mind 


40  Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

and  body,  unready  to  receive  it.  And  this  crown- 
ing was  held  at  Kingston-upon-Thames,  a  fair 
borough  enough,  where  remaineth  unto  this  day 
the  coronation  stone  of  these  our  Saxon  monarchs, 
hedged  in  and  defended  from  damage  by  divers 
iron  palings.  This  ceremonie  was  performed  by 
Dunstan,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  though  sorelie 
against  his  will,  and  he  made  unto  the  child  king 
this  very  laudable  and  bold  preachment,  which 
partaketh  of  the  nature  of  a  prophecy,  insomuch 
that  so  soon  after  it,  the  kingdom  hath  been  devas- 
tated and  overcome  by  both  Danish  and  Norman 
folk.  "  Because,"  saith  he,  "  thou  hast  aspired 
to  the  crown  by  the  death  of  thy  brother,  whom 
thy  mother  hath  murdered,  therefore  hear  the 
word  of  the  Lord :  the  sword  shall  not  depart 
from  thy  house  but  shall  furiouslie  rage  all  the 
days  of  thy  life  ;  killing  of  thy  seed,  until  such 
time  as  thy  kingdom  shall  be  given  to  a  people 
whose  customs  and  language  the  nation  thou  now 
governest  knoweth  not  Neither  shall  thy  sin,  the 
sin  of  thy  mother,  and  sins  of  those  men  who 
were  executors  of  her  wicked  designs,  be  expiated, 
but  by  a  long  and  most  severe  vengeance."  A 


A  Royal  Tragedy.  41 

speech  methinks,  terrible  enough  to  fright  the 
poor  boy,  and  to  make  him  all  the  more  likelie 
to  hesitate  in  all  his  after  deeds,  so  as  to  well  earn 
that  curious  epithet,  by  which  he  hath  been  known 
ever  since,  and  to  which  I  have  before  referred,  of 
"  The  Unready."  Elphreda  now  busied  herself, 
for  she  must  be  busied  with  somewhat,  in  building 
two  monasteries  ;  to  wit,  that  of  Amesbury  and 
Wormel,  in  the  counties  of  Wilts  and  Southamp- 
ton ;  in  which  latter,  she  took  up  her  abode,  doing 
therein  many  acts  of  penance,  hoping  therebye 
to  mitigate  the  judgment  on  her  past  sins ;  and 
calling  upon  God  many  times  in  the  day  to  have 
mercy  on  her  soul.  Therein  she  died,  and  in  the 
same  lieth  buried. 

Here    endeth    ye    true    storie    of    ye    Ladye 
Elphreda, 


CICELY  AND  HER  FLOWERS. 

4 


CHAPTER    IV. 

CICELY  AND    HER    FLOWERS. 

I  DESIRE  to  recount  in  this  my  diary  many  of  my 
present  thoughts  and  meditations  which  may  here- 
after serve  to  remind  me  of  my  life  at  this  stage, 
when  action  hath  still  much  charm  for  me,  and 
when  the  whole  creation  is  full  to  me  of  unknown 
and  mysterious  phases  I  cannot  as  yet  fathom,  yet 
which  I  love  to  consider 

I  have  set  down  the  musty  manuscript  from  which 
I  have  copied  the  story  of  the  Lady  Elphreda,  upon 
the  table  of  my  cell,  and  pause  to  muse  upon  that 
beauteous  woman  and  her  fairer,  sweeter,  purer 
kinswoman  Ethel.  The  old  palace  was  at  or  very 
near  to  this  same  Tavystoke,  where  I  dwell,  and 
where  then  these  maidens  shone  in  all  the  bright- 
ness of  their  youthful  beauty.  It  was  quite  near, 
perhaps,  to  where  I  now  write  this  in  the  quiet 
peacefulness  of  our  Abbey.  There  is  something 

4? 


46  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

strange  in  these  connecting  links  which  unity  of 
place  and  scenery  makes  between  us  and  those  who 
have  previously  trod  the  same  paths,  seen  the  same 
sights,  heard  the  same  sounds  so  long  ago.  Those 
old  trees  beside  the  river  into  whose  branches  I 
love,  boy- like,  to  climb  and  sit,  while  I  think  for 
hours  on  man's  strange  destiny  and  the  mystery  of 
life,  and  a  thousand  things  I  could  not  write  of, 
even  if  I  would — those  old  trees  must  have  been 
saplings  when  these  maidens  walked  beneath  their 
shade,  and  told  their  secrets  beside  the  murmuring 
plashing  of  the  rocky  river.  All  the  centuries  of 
time  will  be  united  in  the  other  world  to  which  we 
are  hastening.  Kindred  hearts  from  out  the  ages 
when  the  world  was  young  will  meet  with  those 
who,  though  of  yesterday,  have  perfect  sympathy 
with  them  in  thought  and  act.  Perchance  the 
desperadoes  of  our  time  will  share  in  hell  their 
discord  with  the  ancient  evil-doers  of  the  world, 
and  know  a  fierce  anger  that  their  evil  deeds 
were  thought  of  and  performed  long  long  before, 
that  they  have  not  even  the  merit  of  achieving 
novelty  in  their  crimes. 

Delighted  surprise  in  heaven  that  good  deeds 


Cicely  and  her  Flowers.  47 

were  done  in  all  time  and  under  all  circumstances 
by  the  lovers  of  God,  will,  perhaps,  have  its 
counterpoise  in  the  infernal  regions,  in  disappoint- 
ment that  evil  deeds  of  the  very  same  black 
patterns  were  but  again  and  again  repeated.  How 
poorly  I  express  myself,  how  different  my  thoughts 
look,  when  written,  to  those  drearnings  and  ques- 
tionings in  which  I  indulge  myself  among  the 
tree-tops,  and  which  are,  to  me,  so  eloquent  of 
meaning. 

How  many  choice  subjects  there  are  for  my  illu- 
minations in  this  strange,  sad  story  of  Elphreda ! 
What  could  please  my  brush,  dipped  in  the  rich 
and  varied  colours  of  the  rainbow,  more  than  the 
glowing  hues  of  her  splendid  beauty  as  she  wel- 
comes King  Edgar  to  her  father's  palace  ?  What 
a  sweet  study  for  a  calm  hour  lies  in  the  pure 
womanly  loveliness  of  Ethel !  How  my  soft  greys 
and  pale  blue  tints  will  love  to  linger  about  her 
tender  form  1  I  could  not  surely  have  come  upon 
a  rarer,  more  delightful  acquisition  than  these  old 
manuscripts.  I  shall  so  enjoy  to  immortalize,  as 
far  as  it  lies  in  my  poor  power  to  do  so,  my 
countrymen  and  countrywomen  who  figure  in  this 


48  Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

story,  natives  with  myself  of  this  beautiful  western 
part  of  our  beautiful  island. 

This  morning  the  sweet  maiden  Cicely  came 
from  the  Abbey  Farm  with  a  most  delightful 
nosegay  of  flowers  to  aid  me  in  my  illuminations. 
What  a  dear  child  she  is  !  Of  such  I  fancy  were 
the  meek  maidens  that  loved  to  cluster  round 
Christ's  feet  to  learn  of  Him  ;  there  is  so  much 
teachableness  in  Cicely.  If  only  our  choristers 
and  acolytes  showed  such  ready  willingness  to 
learn !  If  it  were  seemly  for  a  friar  I  think  I 
would  paint  Cicely  life-size  and  keep  her  in  my 
cell :  a  young  Saint  Cecilia,  at  whose  pure  shrine 
my  soul  might  be  the  better  for  worshipping. 
Already  I  have  drawn  a  small  copy  of  the  youth- 
ful, innocent  face,  half-child,  half-woman,  in  the 
pages  of  my  missal ;  here  it  is,  the  likeness  of  my 
penitent,  my  pupil,  whom  I  have  watched  with 
interest  ever  since  I  came  to  the  old  abbey.  The 
growth  of  all  things  is  marvellously  interesting. 
The  indescribable  accumulation  of  life  all  around 
us  in  everything,  almost  oppresses  me  sometimes  ; 
the  world  that  exists  in  one  field  ;  every  blade 
of  grass  a  minute  continent  with  its  inhabitants; 


Cicely  and  her  Flowers.  49 

every  drop  of  water  a  miniature  ocean  with  its 
living  creatures.  The  study  of  mere  growth  of 
body  is  wonderfully  fascinating,  but  to  watch  the 
development  of  mind  is  a  nobler  science  yet.  To 
mark  with  joy  the  aspirations  after  good  in  the 
young  heart,  to  find  intelligence  dawning  and 
spreading  like  the  sunlight  on  the  waking  world 
in  early  morning  hours,  this  is  my  delight  If  I 
could  not  be  an  artist,  I  would  have  been  a  teacher. 
I  have  had  many  pleasant  hours  cultivating  the  in- 
telligence of  Cicely ;  her  face  is  a  pleasant  study 
for  a  lover  of  art — the  fair,  smooth,  rounded  brow, 
the  dove-like  trustful  eyes,  violet  in  hue  as  those 
of  the  fair  flowers  I  gathered  yesterday  in  the 
hedges  of  the  river  meadow ;  the  playful,  smiling 
mouth,  the  saucy  nose,  the  pretty  neck,  the  well- 
turned  head ;  all  these  are  thy  belongings,  Cicely, 
and  will  justly  bring  thee  admiration.  How  much 
I  like  to  note  the  pretty  young  girl's  wonder,  her 
awestruck  gaze,  her  pure  astonishment  and  sur- 
prise, when  she  finds  there  is  so  much  she  does  not 
yet  know.  She  is  not  clownish,  not  open-mouthed, 
as  are  so  many  of  these  poor  rustics  who  live 
round  about  us. 


50  Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

Ah !  Cicely,  my  child,  as  thou  walkest  further 
on  thy  road  of  life,  further  from  childhood,  nearer 
to  life's  end,  how  will  this  strange  surprise  of  thine 
increase  and  spread  until  thou  hast  to  wonder — 
oh!  so  often,  that  at  last  I  fear  thou  wilt  grow 
tired,  and  cease  to  wonder  any  more.  I  fear  that, 
like  so  many  others  who  started  full  of  new  and 
glorious  delight  at  every  fresh  beauty  in  the  great 
creation  of  God,  thou  too  wilt  grow  careless  about 
the  pencil-marks  of  His  hand  on  the  tiny  floweret 
or  the  sea-washed  shell ;  thou  too  wilt  forget  to 
listen  when  He  speaks  to  thee  in  the  varied  notes 
of  the  wild  birds,  and  wilt  scarcely  care  if  larks  or 
sparrows  fill  the  choir. 

It  is  one  of  the  greatest  misfortunes  that  can 
happen  to  any  of  us — by  whatever  chance  our 
senses  may  become  blunted—  when  the  exquisite 
variations  of  colour  and  tint  and  shape  and  sound 
cease  to  be  of  moment  to  us.  Then  we  grovel, 
instead  of  walking  as  God  meant  us  to  walk  upon 
His  beautiful  world,  erect,  and  with  our  eyes  lifted 
up  unto  His  heavens.  Sensuality,  pride,  indiffer- 
ence, each  of  these  sins  takes  the  golden  wealth  of 
our  being  from  us. 


Cicely  and  her  Flowers.  51 

I  would  not  willingly  find  fault  with  my  brethren, 
but  yet  I  cannot  help  knowing  that  amongst  these 
pious  men,  a  thousand  and  more  in  number,  there 
is  really  very  little  living  unto  God  in  the  fullest, 
happiest,  brightest,  highest  sense.  We  monks,  who 
shut  out  the  common  passions  of  humanity  from 
the  heart,  the  home  life  and  home  loves  that  are 
so  truly  sanctifying  to  many  natures,  do  not  there- 
fore necessarily  become  pure  ;  but,  alas !  very  often 
give  only  the  more  place  to  the  gluttony,  the 
avarice,  the  pride,  the  superstitions  that  are  ab- 
horrent to  our  Master,  Christ.  .  Must  it  be  ever  so? 
Cannot  a  body  of  men,  separated  from  that  wild 
whirl  of  life  that  so  nearly  engulfs  many  of  us  in 
the  first  strong  moments  of  manhood,  and  specially 
consecrated  to  God,  show  forth  the  ideal  of  what 
devotion  should  be  ?  Must  our  religion  be  so 
mixed  up  with  our  grosser  natures  that  though 
we  set  ourselves  apart  to  its  cultivation  we  are  no 
better  than  our  neighbours  who  live  in  the  midst 
of  the  world,  sharing  its  cares,  its  joys,  its  sorrows  ? 
Something  must  be  very  wrong  in  us  that  these 
things  should  be  so. 

Even  our  hermit  who  lives  across  the  river,  and 


52  Frwr  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

who  receives  every  week  his  portion  of  dry  bread 
from  our  abbey,  and  only  supplements  this  homely 
fare  by  a  few  wild  roots  and  berries — a  very  model 
of  abstinence — dishonours  God,  as  I  conceive,  by 
hiding  as  it  were  under  a  napkin  unused  that  gift 
of  eloquence  with  which  God  has  endowed  him, 
and  which  made  him  once  so  popular  and  zealous 
a  preacher ;  as  also  by  the  filthy  apparel  in  which 
he  is  content  to  exist.  For  do  what  I  will  I 
cannot  understand  that  religion  lurks  in  soiled 
garments,  or  has  any  fellowship  with  dirt  The 
purity  that  is  an  attribute  of  the  Divine  nature, 
requires  a  corresponding  purity  in  God's  children. 
When  I  think  of  the  incongruousness  of  a  dirty 
angel,  and  also  of  the  supplication,  "  Thy  will 
be  done  on  earth,  as  it  is  in  heaven,"  I  am  weary 
and  sick  at  heart  as  I  recollect  that  Friar  Paolo 
is  termed  holy  in  his  unclean  robes,  unwashed 
face,  unshaven  and  matted  beard. 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 


CHAPTER    V. 

THE   MAY   QUEEN. 

APRIL  loth,  1522.  —  How  swiftly  Old  Father 
Time  swings  his  sickle  and  turns  his  hour-glass 
even  in  this  quiet  Devonshire  valley,  even  within 
these  monastic  walls.  The  year  has  not  been  an 
unhappy  one.  I  have  not,  truly,  made  so  much 
progress  as  I  thought  to  have  done  ere  now  with 
my  old  manuscripts  and  my  illustrations  of  them, 
but  I  have  striven  to  make  each  picture  a  real 
work  of  art,  the  embodiment  alike  of  the  joint 
powers  of  my  brain  and  hand.  I  have  shown 
each  sketch,  almost  each  separate  figure  or  coun- 
tenance, as  I  conceived  them,  and  as  I  have 
progressed  in  my  work,  to  Cicely.  Her  simple 
praise  is  very  sweet  tcr  me.  1  can  but  think  of 
her  just  now,  for  she  has  told  me  to-day  that 
she  is  to  be  the  May  Queen  this  year,  a  grand 
honour  to  which  my  gentle  favourite  looks  forward 

55 


56  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

with  extreme  delight  I  shall  do  well  to  inform 
her  as  to  the  proper  manner  of  her  costume,  the 
flowers  that  should  form  her  crown,  the  songs 
that  should  be  sung  in  her  praise.  This  choice, 
which  might  easily  spoil  a  vainer  maiden,  will  do 
Cicely  good.  How  fair  the  hawthorn  snow  will 
look  mingled  with  the  golden  brown  of  her  thick 
tresses;  and  the  tint  of  the  graceful  bluebell  is 
not  more  deep  than  those  sweet  eyes  of  hers. 
Let  me  think  awhile.  Yes,  I  will  have  it  so ; 
Cicely's  crown  shall  be  of  my  weaving.  How  can 
these  simple  cottage  girls  know  as  well  as  I  how 
to  place  the  varied  hues  of  their  flowers  so  as  to 
obtain  the  fairest  combinations  and  the  richest 
colouring?  Besides,  the  child  is  my  own  in  the 
high  and  spiritual  sense  of  fatherhood ;  have  I 
not  administered  to  her  her  first  communion  ? 
Do  I  not  hear  her  innocent  confessions,  as,  with 
blushing  face  and  downcast  eyes,  she  reveals 
those  trifling  errors  in  her  daily  walk,  which, 
sweet  soul,  she  calls  sin  ?  Dear  Cicely,  may  thy 
heart  ever  be  as  pure  as  it  is  now,  when  the  sun- 
light of  God's  love  irradiates  its  seventeen  years 
of  life,  and  shows  to  thee  every  speck  so  plainly 


The  May  Queen.  57 

that  it  seems  a  hideous  flaw !  Would  that  I — 
would  that  any  of  the  thousand  monks  in  this 
abbey — were  as  guileless  as  thou  art.  How  I 
loiter  at  my  tasks  when  the  thought  of  thy  sweet 
face  comes  between  me  and  my  missals,  or  my 
pictures!  Cicely,  how  is  this?  How  is  it  too 
that  thy  dancing  curls  and  glowing  cheeks  and 
laughing  eyes  visit  me  in  my  dreams,  and  I  wake 
so  much  too  soon,  to  turn  and  toss  restlessly  on 
my  pillow,  and  wish  I  could  but  dream  again? 
I  am  a  coward  when  I  think  of  thee,  Cicely  ;  even 
here  in  the  still  silence  of  my  cell — here,  with 
only  the  conscious  presence  of  God  and  my  own 
soul,  I  dare  not  ask  myself  what  it  all  means, 
this  fierce  striving  and  battling  within  me  when- 
ever I  think  of  thee,  Cicely  ;  and  alas  1  when  do 
I  not  think  of  thee?  The  great  world  grows 
small  to  me.  There  are  but  two  places  in  it, 
Cicely :  where  thou  art,  and  where  I  am,  and  I 
am  near  thee.  There  are  but  two  dwellers  on  it : 
thyself,  myself;  and  I  realize  a  golden  day  of  joy. 
Then  suddenly,  with  but  a  single  turn  of  thought, 
the  world  expands :  it  is  full  of  people ;  the  thou- 
sand friars,  with  our  abbot  at  their  head,  stare  at 


58  Friar  Hildeb rand's  Cross. 

me  angrily,  and  gather  round  me  to  hide  thee 
from  my  sight ;  the  clouds  cover  the  dark  sky ; 
night,  cold  night,  creeps  over  my  awestruck  soul. 
Cicely,  perchance  thou  wouldest  only  smile,  and 
never  understand  my  sore  distress.  I  will  no 
longer  dream  thus.  Idleness  is  God's  enemy, 
man's  tempter,  Satan's  decoy  bird  ! 

April  23rd. — Even  since  last  I  wrote  in  this  diary 
of  mine  less  than  two  weeks  ago,  I  have  learnt 
to  read  my  own  heart  too  correctly  not  to  feel 
that  I  walk  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice,  and  that 
I  shall  need  all  my  strength  of  will — above  all, 
much  of  the  grace  of  God — not  to  stumble  and 
fall  just  exactly  where  others  have  fallen.  I  wjll 
not  write  the  sweet  name  upon  this  page  which 
thrills  my  heart  even  to  repeat  it :  rather  will  I 
pray  that,  however  strong  within  me  may  rise  the 
tide  of  passion — however  plainly  I  may  be  made 
to  feel  that,  though  I  am  a  monk,  I  have  not 
ceased  to  be  a  man ;  yet  that  I  may  never  bring 
one  moment's  sorrow  upon  the  heart  that  is  now 
so  unsuspecting,  so  joyous  ;  never  mar  the  blue 
sky  of  her  fair  fresh  morning  of  life  with  the 
faintest,  smallest  cloud.  The  happy  spring  and 


The  May  Queen.  59 

flow  of  joy  I  might  have  known  but  for  my  vows, 
must  be  dammed  back  under  this  black  robe,  and 
stemmed  with  this  rough  girdle.  Yet  I  will  keep 
to  my  resolve  to  make  her  May-day  crown.  That 
resolution  I  made  a  few  days  ago,  before  I  asked 
myself  solemnly  what  my  strange  feelings  meant, 
and  before  I  answered  honestly,  frankly  to  my 
soul,  and  to  my  God,  that  I  loved  the  sweet  child 
too  well — alas  !  how  far  too  well — for  my  soul's 
peace.  How  long  ago  that  confession  of  my  heart 
seems !  There  has  been  such  a  great  gulf  fixed 
between  me  and  my  darling  since  then.  Heaven 
and  earth  are  against  me  if  I  break  my  vows.  I 
dare  not  incur  this  load  of  guilt,  yet  to  me  the 
guilt  seems  so  much  greater  still  were  I  to  dare, 
even  in  thought,  to  mar  her  innocence  and  my 
own.  Surely  the  devil  must  find  food  for  rejoicing 
even  in  this  Abbaye  of  Tavystoke,  and  amongst 
the  pious  disciples  of  St  Augustine  1  For  in- 
stance, when 

Hildebrand  \  I  start  forward  at  the  voice  of 
conscience,  appalled  at  my  own  bitterness  and 
hardness  of  spirit  Dear  Lord !  I  am  not  safe 
one  moment,  if  I  begin  to  judge  my  fellows 


60  Frwr  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

instead  of  myself,  "  for  with  what  measure  I  mete, 
it  shall  be  measured  to  me  again."  There  are, 
after  all,  better  things  than  the  realization  of 
earthly  joys,  however  fascinating.  Be  it  mine  to 
seek  the  highest  good. 

May-day.  Evening.  1522. — This  has  been  such 
a  very  happy  day  to  me — a  day  so  full  of  God's 
sunshine  and  the  smiles  of  little  children,  and 
flowers,  and  innocent  mirth — that  my  soul  was 
enabled  to  lay  aside  its  troubled  battlings  with 
the  flesh  and  grow  peaceful  in  the  joys  of  others 
till  I  could  myself  rejoice  as  heartily  as  they. 
Miserable  indeed  must  be  the  heart  that  does 
not  brighten  at  the  sweet  sights  and  sounds  of 
nature — the  sights  and  sounds  the  great  All- 
Father,  as  we  delight  to  call  Him,  provides  for 
His  children. 

It  was  like  an  old  pastoral,  fuller  of  music  than 
some  pastorals  are,  the  whole  day:  an  Arcadian 
picture  with  scarcely  less  of  innocence  and  joy. 
I  made  my  May-day  crown  for  Cicely  last  evening 
on  the  floor  here  in  my  cell,  with  baskets  full  of 
flowers  before  me,  from  which  to  choose  what  eye 
and  hand  next  wanted ;  and,  as  I  twined  the 


The  May  Queen.  61 

flowers,  I  sang  softly  to  myself  snatches  of  old 
songs  that  I  had  heard  in  Italy  from  dark-eyed 
serenaders  in  gondolas  under  balconies ;  pure  little 
bits  of  tender  sentiment,  and  sweet  outpourings 
of  fond  passion.  I  was  not  wise,  perhaps,  to  sing 
love-songs,  knowing  what  I  know  of  myself,  but 
they  seemed  so  to  harmonize  with  the  breath  of 
the  flowerets  and  the  throbbings  of  mine  own 
heart  as  the  wreath  grew  between  my  ringers ; 
and  I  threw  in  here  a  violet,  there  a  celandine, 
here  a  nodding  bluebell,  there  a  tress  of  the 
golden-haired  laburnum.  There  was  place  too 
for  the  crimson-petalled  daisy  and  the  fragrant 
lilac  flowers,  while  the  hawthorn  made  the  silver 
setting  for  each  flower  jewel  The  crown  alone 
could  not  content  me ;  I  made  also  a  sceptre  for 
Cicely's  little  hand  to  wield,  and  spent  quite  a 
long  time  in  choosing  the  flowers  that  should  be 
privileged  to  form  the  posy  for  her  bosom  ;  and 
I  made  it  at  last  of  daisies  and  heartsease  and 
forget-me-nots,  with  a  sprig  of  may.  And  when 
I  had  done  I  made  a  long  chain  of  flowers  to 
deck  her  throne,  and  then  I  opened  my  inkhorn 
and  set  to  work  to  write  a  song  for  her,  and  I 


62  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

took  the  words  of  a  text  that  had  been  sounding 
in  my  ears  all  day,  for  my  title : 

REJOICE   EVERMORE! 

When  the  bright  tender  green  of  gentle  spring 

Decks  the  sweet  woods  and  lanes  with  vesture  choice, 
And  joyous  birds  their  gladdest  anthems  sing, 

Rejoice  ! 

When  the  fair  flowers  each  hill  and  mead  adorn, 

And  in  clear  air  the  cuckoo's  cheerful  voice 
Fills  us  with  rapture  every  sunny  morn, 

Rejoice ! 

I  added  the  following  words  in  rhyme  for  Cicely 
to  speak  to  her  friends : — 

Your  May-day  queen  this  golden  sunny  day 
Welcomes  you  to  her  court — advance,  I  pray  ; 
Behold  my  crown,  my  sceptre,  made  of  flowers, 
And  spend  with  me  the  happy  May-day  hours. 

Early  this  morning  I  awoke.  All  through  my 
dreams,  Cicely,  clad  in  her  white  festive  robes, 
and  wreathed  with  the  garlands  I  had  twined, 
had  danced  before  me,  and  when  I  would  have 
caught  her  in  my  arms,  and  clasped  her  to  my 
heart,  she  had  vanished  suddenly,  to  appear  again 
and  again  before  my  dazzled  eyes,  but  always  at 
a  distance  from  me.  I  was  not  the  only  monk 


The  May  Queen.  63 

who  mingled  in  the  laughing  throng  that  wandered 
through  the  lanes  to  bring  home  the  maypole. 
The  tree  had  been  cut  down  the  day  before,  and 
six  of  the  oxen  from  the  Abbey  farm  of  Tiddey- 
brook  were  sent  to  bring  it  home,  with  a  goodly 
accompaniment  of  servants,  together  with  Cicely 
and  her  father,  and  a  dozen  or  two  of  her  brothers 
and  sisters  and  nephews  and  nieces.  Cicely  was 
in  a  white  robe  already,  though  it  was  of  simple 
texture,  and  not,  as  I  well  knew,  the  robe  of 
state  which  she  would  wear  as  queen.  She  smiled 
when  she  saw  me,  and  ran  up  to  me  eagerly,  with 
a  flush  on  her  sweet  face,  to  know  if  her  crown 
were  ready  for  her  use. 

"  Quite  ready,  my  fair  child,"  said  I,  softly 
patting  her  fair  cheek. 

"What  thinkest  thou,  Friar  Hildebrand,"  said 
she,  "  we  have  been  up  so  brave  and  early  this 
morning,  that  it  seems  already  many  hours  ago 
since  I  awoke ;  and  what  dost  thou  think  we  have 
ber-T  doing  ?  " 

"  i  should  like  very  much  for  thee  to  tell  me, 
Cicely,"  I  said,  watching  the  laughing  eyes,  and 
the  merry  dimples  of  the  sweet  mouth. 


64  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

"Canst  thou  not  guess  secrets,  Friar  Hilde- 
brand  ?  "  quoth  she,  archly,  while  a  great  pang  shot 
through  my  heart,  to  be  assuaged  by  her  next 
words.  "Dost  thou  not  know  what  maidens  do 
the  very  first  thing  on  May-day  morning  ?  Does 
not  my  skin  look  fairer  than  is  wont  ? "  And 
then  she  blushed  and  hung  her  pretty  head,  the 
woman  in  her  ashamed  of  the  child's  questions. 

I  smiled  and  said,  "  Thou  art  always  so  very 
fair,  Cicely,  that  I  cannot  see  the  difference." 

"  Silly  little  one,  why  dost  thou  trouble  Friar 
Hildebrand  with  thy  prattle  ? "  said  her  father, 
coming  up  to  us  and  interrupting  our  talk,  much 
to  my  discomfiture.  "  Dost  thou  not  know  he 
is  a  grave,  learned  man,  and  that  such  folk  have 
better  things  in  their  heads  than  thou  canst  put 
there  ? "  and  he  pinched  her  small  ear,  as  I 
thought,  a  little  too  roughly. 

"  Cicely  was  telling  me  of  something  I  did  not 
know  before,"  I  answered,  detaining  her  till  her 
father  had  passed  on.  "  What  hast  thou  been  doing 
this  morning  to  thy  blushing  face,  my  child  ?  " 

"  We — oh,  such  a  number  of  us !  "  said  Cicely, 
"have  been  bathing  our  faces  in  the  May  dew. 


The  May  Queen.  65 

It  was  such  fun  to  put  our  faces  down  in  the 
grass,  and  splash  the  sparkling  drops  up  into  our 
cheeks  with  our  hands  ;  and  they  say  'twill  make 
us  look  beautiful,  dear  friar,  and  women  ought 
to  try  to  look  pretty,  ought  they  not  ? " 

She  put  her  little  hand  into  mine  with  such 
a  frank,  childish  sweetness  as  she  spoke,  that  I 
said  to  myself,  "  If  thou  wert  not  a  monk,  Hilde- 
brand,  thou  mightest  set  thyself  to  win  this  dear 
child's  young,  innocent,  affectionate  heart,  and  I 
think  thou  wouldst  succeed  ; "  but,  being  a  monk, 
I  said  gently,  as  I  always  speak  to  Cicely,  "  Yes, 
my  sweet  maiden,  all  things  ought  to  look  as 
pretty  as  the  great  good  God  intended  them  to 
be.  But  thou  must  not  believe  too  readily  in 
silly  fancies.  The  May  dew  makes  maidens  more 
beautiful,  only  because  it  is  good  to  get  up  early, 
and  go  into  the  open  air  at  dawn,  and  wash 
plentifully  in  pure  water,  not  because  the  dew  on 
the  blades  of  grass  on  May- day  is  healthier  than 
on  any  other  day,  or  than  the  spring  water  at 
the  farm.  But  it  is  such  a  good  thing  to  get 
quite  close  to  nature  in  one  of  her  sweetest, 
quietest  moments,  when  all  her  thousand  beauties 


66  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

awake  after  the  gentle  rest  of  night,  that  I  should 
advise  thee  to  try  the  May-dew  bath  for  thy 
bright  face  every  morning." 

Cicely  laughed  so  gaily,  so  joyously,  and  said 
to  me,  "  Come  along,  dear  Friar  Hildebrand  ;  we 
must  come  quickly,  or  we  shall  not  see  them 
harness  the  oxen  to  the  great  tree,"  and  we 
hastened  forward.  There  were  such  a  crowd  and 
so  much  laughter  before  us  in  the  wood  that  the 
birds  were  almost  too  much  frightened  to  sing  ; 
but  the  thrushes  and  blackbirds  could  not  resist 
a  few  explanatory  notes  to  each  other,  doubtless 
on  the  subject  of  our  business  there ;  and  in  the 
distance  we  saw  the  cuckoo  flying,  and  presently 
heard  his  clear,  sweet  voice  upon  the  sunny 
morning  air.  Then  the  oxen  were  ready  to  start, 
and  the  procession  was  formed,  boughs  and 
bunches  of  hawthorn  were  gathered  by  everybody, 
and  even  each  one  of  the  grave  oxen  was  deco- 
rated with  flowers,  while  many  of  the  girls  and 
children  seated  themselves  upon  the  maypole  to 
ride  back  thereon  to  the  town.  The  pole  is 
always,  and  has  been,  I  suppose,  for  centuries, 
raised  in  one  of  our  abbaye  meadows  that  borders 


The  May  Queen.  67 

the  river,  but  at  the  distance  of  about  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  from  the  abbaye  wall ;  so  on  we  come 
through  the  goodly  town,  gathering  fresh  additions 
to  our  number  at  every  step,  for  they  who  have 
been  somewhat  slow  to  get  up  even  on  this  bright 
May-day  morning  are  astir  by  this  time,  and  come 
to  their  doors  to  see  the  procession  pass,  which  is 
enlivened  by  strains  from  various  Pan-pipes,  and 
whistles  made  of  sycamore,  and  horns  of  many 
sizes,  with  here  and  there  a  more  ambitious  flute, 
and  a  fiddle  or  two,  that  make  the  feet  of  the 
young  folk  to  move  in  sympathy.  Also  by  figures 
in  various  quaint  devices,  some  in  skins  of  beasts, 
others  inside  wooden  frames,  like  in  shape  to 
horses  and  dogs,  which  make  the  air  resound  with 
their  quaint  and  shrill  cries.  For  myself,  I,  Friar 
Hildebrand,  would  be  well  content  to  listen  to 
the  sweeter  strains  of  bird  and  beast,  as  God 
makes  them  ;  but  our  good  folk  like  to  be  amused, 
and  if  the  amusement  is  neither  cruel  nor  vicious 
it  becomes  even  a  friar  to  laugh  with  the  rest, 
rather  than  to  mumble  angry  denunciations,  and 
frown  and  look  cross. 

At  length  the  patient  oxen  stand  still,  obedient 


68  Friar  Hildebrand' s  Cross. 

to  the  word  of  their  leader,  and  now  the  maypole 
is  reared  on  high,  with  flags  and  flowers  waving 
from  its  summit,  amidst  the  shouts  and  cries  and 
songs  of  the  whole  vast  assemblage,  amongst 
which  are  fully  one-half  of  our  monks,  who  have 
come  out  after  matins  to  participate  somewhat  in 
the  fun  and  glory  of  the  day,  whereat  Cicely, 
to  whom  I  had  kept  near,  all  the  morning,  said 
to  me,  in  her  droll  way:  "Dear  Friar  Hildebrand 
how  alike  the  monk's  dress  makes  you  all  look 
to  the  rooks  that  fly  about  over  the  fields,  alight- 
ing hither  and  thither  amongst  the  flowers,  and 
then  flying  away  to  some  fresh  spot" 

I  gave  her  little  hand  a  tight  squeeze  for  her 
mischievous  playfulness,  and  answered  her  in  the 
same  tone,  "So  be  it,  Cicely,  for  the  rooks  are 
a  good,  plain,  sensible  sort  of  birds,  to  which 
I  am  not  unwilling  to  be  likened  ;  sooner  far 
would  I  be  an  honest  black  rook,  who  minds  his 
own  business  and  does  his  work  bravely,  than 
a  gay,  conceited  parrot,  who  chatters  a  good  deal 
more  than  is  seemly." 

Whereat  Cicely  laughed  heartily,  and  said, 
"Am  I  the  parrot,  dear  Friar  Hildebrand?" 


The  May  Queen.  69 

"  No,  nor  wilt  thou  ever  be,  I  trust,"  I  said 
abruptly,  for  I  found  myself  unskilful  in  discourse 
with  the  dear  child,  because  of  those  strong 
feelings  of  mine  that  I  had  to  hide  from  her. 
Just  at  this  time,  and  while  I  was  thinking  of  the 
various  origins  of  these  May- day  customs,  Cicely 
was  beckoned  to  from  the  other  side  of  the 
meadows  by  her  sister,  and  presently  her  little 
nephew,  Edwy,  was  come  to  fetch  her. 

"'Tis  time  thou  got  ready  to  be  queen,  Aunt 
Cicely,"  he  said ;  and  then  I  thought  of  my 
wreath,  my  sceptre,  and  posy  and  song,  and  went 
to  the  cool  dimness  of  my  cell  to  fetch  them. 
Thence  I  proceeded  to  the  house  of  Cicely's 
married  sister,  where  the  queen  was  to  be  robed, 
and  escorted  her  unto  the  meadow,  where  a  throne 
and  footstool  of  wood  had  been  erected  by  the 
young  men,  cushioned  with  crimson  velvet,  and 
carpeted  with  flowers ;  and  as  the  dear  child 
advanced  in  her  pure  white  robes,  and  my  posy 
on  her  breast,  I  gave  the  crown  and  sceptre  into 
the  hands  of  those  who  had  been  appointed  to 
proclaim  her  queen  of  the  May,  and  wished  I 
could  myself  have  attained  that  coveted  honour. 


70  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

There  was  a  burst  of  hearty  admiration  as  the 
flower  wreath  crowned  the  head  of  clustering 
curls,  and  at  that  sound  the  eyes  flashed  for  an 
instant  almost  proudly,  the  posy  rose  and  fell 
upon  her  breast,  her  sweet  lips  trembled,  a  deep 
crimson  blush  spread  over  neck  and  cheek  and 
forehead,  and  the  flowery  sceptre  shook  nervously 
in  the  little  hand.  Ah,  Cicely,  what  a  proud 
moment  it  was  for  thee,  my  child,  and  how  many 
eyes  besides  mine  rested  on  thee  with  admiration  ! 
Then  the  bells  of  the  Abbaye  church  rang  out 
sweetly,  tenderly,  and  floated  upon  every  quiver- 
ing sunbeam  into  the  very  midst  of  the  happy 
crowd,  whereat  the  young  May-queen  and  her 
maids  of  honour,  flower-wreathed  like  herself,  left 
the  throne  in  the  sunny  meadow,  and,  followed 
by  a  long  train,  entered  St.  Mary's  shrine,  now 
beautifully  adorned  with  flowers,  where  the  sun- 
shine, streaming  through  the  painted  windows,  fell 
in  rich  patches  of  coloured  light  upon  the  white 
robes  of  the  maidens.  There  all  knelt  in  meek 
devotion,  while  soft  music  breathed  and  echoed 
forth  the  benedictions  of  the  priests.  Nor  was 
there  aught  but  what  was  most  fair  and  sweet 


The  May  Queen.  71 

in  this  pause  in  the  innocent  merry-making,  to 
remember  Him  through  whom  the  whole  joy  of 
the  world  came  to  us. 

Out  again  into  the  sunshine  and  on  the  green 
sward  of  the  river  meadow  to  the  dancing  round 
the  maypole,  and  all  the  mirth  and  music  that 
young  glad  hearts  make  for  themselves  when  the 
year  is,  like  them,  just  bursting  into  its  summer 
tide.  And  the  queen  entertains  her  guests  at  a 
sumptuous  feast  of  syllabubs  and  junkets  covered 
with  the  famous  and  unequalled  cream  of  this 
western  county,  and  gives  away  the  queen-cakes 
she  has  made,  with  no  unsparing  hand.  And  there 
is  playing  of  lady's  slipper  and  blindman's-buff, 
and  many  another  game  as  full  of  mirth ;  and  a 
little  too  much  drinking  of  ale  and  cider  from 
long  horns  and  huge  tankards,  as  is  evident  by 
the  unsteady  steps  and  unseemly  drowsiness  of 
not  a  few,  specially  of  the  older  men.  What  a 
pity  that  even  on  a  May-day  holiday  sin  must 
push  in  his  ugly  face  amongst  the  formerly 
innocent  revellers.  Ah !  truly  the  world  so 
pleasant,  so  flowery,  so  fair,  would  be  heaven 
itself  without  sin  ;  as  one  part  of  it  was  once 


72  Friar  Hilde brand's  Cross. 

Paradise  till  the  serpent  entered  it.  But  to  most 
of  us  I  do  believe  this  golden  May-day  was  a 
worthy  interpretation  of  what  it  was  meant  to  be 
by  Him  who  gave  it  to  us,  a  pause  in  life  to 
welcome  the  flowers  and  the  birds  and  the  sun- 
shine. 

So,  looking  back  through  the  hours  that  are 
now  over,  that  have  glided  so  softly  from  the 
present  into  the  past,  with  only  a  murmuring 
sweetness  to  mark  their  onward  flow,  I  feel  happy 
and  thankful  for  the  joys  I  have  known  through 
them,  and  the  music  of  the  vesper  hymn  fitly 
closes  a  day  that  has  been  so  full  of  peace. 

When  I  parted  just  now  from  Cicely  and  her 
friends  as  they  went  back  to  the  Abbey  farm, 
her  violet  eyes  looked  up  into  mine  so  trustfully, 
and  her  sweet  voice  said,  "  Good-night,  dear  Friar 
Hildebrand ;  thou  hast  done  so  much  to  make  me 
happy  to-day,  and  I  do  love  thee  for  all  thy 
kindness,  and  especially  for  my  beautiful  crown, 
and  above  all,  I  think,  for  my  song." 

And  she  went  away  warbling  forth  the  last 
verse,  while  all  the  youngsters  around  her  caught 
up  the  final  word,  "  Rejoice ! "  and  shouted  it 


The  May  Queen.  73 

gaily  with  her  in  a  chorus  of  sweet  sound,  when 
the  turn  in  the  road  hid  her  from  my  view.  And 
now  the  pale  soft  beauty  of  the  moonlight  floods 
my  chamber  and  lights  up  the  Madonna  and 
Child,  in  Parian  marble,  upon  my  altar,  which 
His  Holiness,  Pope  Leo  X.,  gave  to  me  as  a 
parting  gift  ere  I  left  Rome. 


YE  HISTORY  OF  YE  GIANT 
ORDULPH,  WITH  MANY  AND 
MINUTE  PARTICULARS  OF 
YE  FOUNDING  OF  YE  AB- 
BAYE  OF  TAVYSTOKE." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

HISTORY  OF  YE  GIANT  ORDULPH,  WITH 
MANY  AND  MINUTE  PARTICULARS  OF  YE 
FOUNDING  OF  YE  ABB  A  YE  OF  TAVYSTOKE." 

THE  next  of  the  old  manuscripts  in  order  of  time 
has  an  especial  reference  to  the  founding  of  this 
our  Abbey.  I  had  hitherto  believed  that  Duke 
Orgar,  Ordulph's  father,  had  had  a  hand  in  its 
foundation,  but  can  find  no  notice  of  his  share 
of  the  work  throughout  these  embrowned  pages. 
Perchance,  like  David  of  old,  he  did  but  prepare 
the  means  which  Ordulph — a  second  Solomon — 
should  use. 

Thus  it  reads  : — 

Ordulph,  the  giant  Duke  of  Tavystoke,  riseth 
one  night  from  his  bed,  as  his  manner  was,  to 
perform  his  devotions,  being  a  man  of  most 
devout  and  pious  heart,  and  goeth  outside  of  his 
palace,  as  from  his  youth  he  had  accustomed 

77 


78  Friar  Hildebrand 's  Cross. 

himself,  to  worship  in  the  stillnesse  of  night,  and 
under  the  canopie  of  heaven.  Here,  when  even 
the  bird  hath  forgotten,  through  sleep,  to  sing  his 
hymn  of  praise,  and  the  very  flowers  have  closed 
their  little  eyes,  the  which,  in  daylight,  they  love 
to  cast  heavenward,  this  great  man  lifteth  up  his 
hands  to  God,  and  beseecheth  the  blessing  of  the 
Most  High.  Then  did  there  appeare  unto  him  a 
most  wondrous  sight,  no  less  a  marvelle  than  that 
of  a  golden  glorie,  which  extendeth  from  the 
heavens  to  the  earth,  which  he  can  compare  to 
nothing  so  much  as  to  a  mightie  sunbeam  or 
pathway  of  light ;  and  that,  shining  through  the 
pitchy  darknesse  of  the  night,  affrighteth  him 
more  than  it  pleaseth  him,  as  may  well  be,  he  not 
knowing  its  occasion,  nor  whether  it  shineth  in 
wrath  or  in  mercie.  So  swiftlie  he  departeth,  with 
his  mighty  strides,  into  his  own  house  again, 
and  reacheth  his  chamber  speedilie,  where,  without 
waking  his  faire  dame,  the  Duchesse  Ethel,  he 
doth  weepe  piteouslie,  making  his  couch  to  be 
wet  with  his  tears,  until  that  sleep  overcometh 
his  eyelids.  But  his  sleep  is  not  to  be  without 
meaning,  for  behold,  in  a  vision,  he  seeth  one  of 


Ye  Story  of  ye  Giant  Ordulph.        79 

a  most  faire  and  lovelie  countenance,  who  standeth 
beside  him,  and  thus  speaketh  unto  him : 

"  Be  not  afraid,  oh  !  thou  beloved  of  God  !  but 
know  for  certaintie  that  thy  prayers  will  be  heard 
of  Him,  of  which  thou  hast  demonstration  in  that 
splendid  light  so  latelie  shown  unto  thee.  Rise, 
therefore,  very  earlie  this  morning,  and  dili- 
gentlie  inquire  out  the  place  where  thou  sawest 
that  pillar  of  light  and  glory,  and  there,  as  a  sign 
of  sanctitie,  thou  shalt  find  four  rods  fixed  at  equal 
corners.  In  that  place  thou  shalt  rise  an  oratoire, 
so  large  as  those  rods  denote,  to  the  honour  of  the 
four  evangelists,  who  have,  as  on  a  four-wheeled 
chariot,  carried  the  Gospel  of  Christ  through  the 
four  quarters  of  the  world ;  and  in  so  doing  thou 
shalt  obtain  the  pardon  of  thy  sins." 

Having  listened  unto  the  music  of  the  voice  of 
this  celestial  visitant,  Ordulph  ariseth  again  from 
his  bed,  devoutlie  repeateth  his  prayers,  and  re- 
turning to  his  couch,  gentlie  awakeneth  Ethel, 
to  whom  he  longeth  to  recount  the  marvellous 
incidents  of  that  glorious  light,  and  of  his  dream 
close  following  upon  it. 

To  whom  Ordulph  thus :    "  My   beloved    wife 


8o  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

now  would  I  acquaint  thee  with  some  strange 
matters." 

Whereat  the  ladye  giveth  a  slight  start.  "  Hath 
it  aught  to  do  with  thy  visions  upon  thy  bed,  my 
dear  lord  ? "  quoth  she. 

"  Wherefore  inquirest  thou,  my  Ethel  ? " 

" Because,"  saith  she,  "I  too  have  a  wondrous 
dream  to  tell  thee  of,  when  thou  art  done." 

"Thou  shalt  speak  first,  my  Ethel,"  saith  Duke 
Ordulph. 

"  Nay,  nay,  my  dear  lord,  let  it  be  mine  to 
listen  :  a  wife's  duty  is  first  to  listen,  then  to 
speak." 

"Not  when  her  lord  would  have  it  otherwise," 
saith  the  duke,  planting  a  kiss  playfullie  on  her 
sweet  lips.  "  Let  that  unseal  them,  and  let  thy 
dear  voice  utter  what  thou  hast  seen." 

"  Know  then,  my  Ordulph,  that  an  angel  hath 
stood  beside  me  this  night,  bright  as  a  star  and 
glorious  as  the  sun ;  a  beauteous  creature,  clad  as 
it  were  in  robes  of  moonlight,  with  a  coronet  of 
stars  around  his  shining  locks,  and  in  accents 
gentle,  yet  commanding,  he  hath  informed  me  that 
Duke  Ordulph,  my  dear  husband,  hath  to  build 


Ye  Story  of  ye  Giant  Ordulph.       81 

an  oratoire  to  the  four  evangelists,  the  place 
whereon  hath  been  showed  unto  him,  and  that  I 
am  to  forward  the  good  work  with  all  my  might" 

a  This,  sweetheart,  is  what  I  have  to  tell  thee,** 
quoth  Ordulph ;  and  he  recounteth  unto  her  the 
full  particulars  of  the  light,  and  the  dream  that 
followeth  it  Whereupon  they  talk  together  for 
a  long  while  upon  the  goodnesse  of  God,  and  His 
marvellous  ways  to  the  children  ol  men,  after 
which  they  sweetlie  fall  asleep.  And,  behold,  unto 
each  appeareth  again  the  same  dream,  the  same 
bright  angel  standeth  beside  each  ;  but  he  doth 
not  repeat  the  same  words,  but  saith  earnestlie, 
"  Why  do  ye  delay  to  obey  my  orders  ?  Have 
ye  never  heard  that  obedience  is  better  than 
sacrifice  ?  Rise,  therefore,  seek  and  do  as  is 
commanded,"  with  more  to  the  same  purpose. 
Again  the  duke  and  his  ladye  sink  into  the  arms 
of  sleep.  Whereupon  for  a  third  time  the  angel 
cometh  to  each,  and  now  no  longer  do  they  dare 
to  hesitate,  being  persuaded  that  it  is  an  angel 
of  God.  So  rising  together,  the  giant  duke  taketh 
his  faire  wife  with  him,  and  seeketh  in  the  woods 
adjoyning  to  the  palace  for  that  very  spot  where 


82  Friar  Hildebrand' s  Cross. 

at  night  the  glory  had  appeared  unto  him,  and 
whither,  lest  he  should  err,  the  angel  mercifullie 
conducted  him.  Then,  falling  upon  their  knees, 
they  return  thanks  to  God  for  the  honour  He  had 
conferred  in  manifesting  His  will  to  His  servant, 
and  for  sending  His  angel  unto  him  and  unto 
the  dear  partner  of  his  life 

Now  soon  there  springeth  up  a  fine  oratoire  in 
that  place,  being  commenced  the  very  same  day, 
and  for  that  Ordulph  would  obey,  and  even  go 
beyond  obedience  in  this  wondrous  matter,  he 
maketh  it  to  exceed  by  a  good  space  the  limits 
given  by  the  angel  After  which,  at  the  western 
part  thereof,  he  formed  the  Abbaye  of  Tavystoke, 
which  he  richly  endowed  with  eight  manors,  his 
ladye  likewise  enriching  it,  now  and  afterwards, 
with  other  twelve,  in  which  abbaye  was  abund- 
ance of  room  for  over  one  thousand  monks.  This 
abbaye  Ordulph  dedicated  unto  St  Mary ;  and 
over  the  monks,  to  direct  and  inspect  their  man- 
ners, he  appointed  an  abbot.  King  Ethelred, 
son  of  the  guiltie  Elphreda,  and  nephew  to  Duke 
Ordulph,  being,  as  we  have  alreadye  seen,  set 
upon  the  English  throne,  did  confirm,  in  this 


Ye  Story  of  ye  Giant  Ordulph.        83 

matter  of  the  Abbaye  of  Tavystoke,  all  the  wishes 
and  workes  of  his  pious  uncle,  and,  besides  grant- 
ing unto  it  many  not  before  mentioned  privileges, 
did  make  it  free  from  all  worldlie  services,  save 
and  except  "  rata  expeditione,  pontis  arcisve 
restauratione  "  (established  military  expenses,  with 
the  repairing  of  bridges  or  arches).  In  this  charter 
of  the  King  Ethelred,  which  was  witnessed  and 
consented  to  by  no  less  personages  than  Dunstan, 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  and  Oswald,  Archbishop 
of  York,  together  with  ten  other  bishops,  besides 
divers  great  dukes  and  others,  occurreth  this  sen- 
tence :  "  If  any,  seduced  with  $he  madness  of 
covetousnesse,  shall  presume  to  infringe  this  muni- 
ficence, let  him  be  driven  from  the  Communion  of 
Christ's  Church,  and  from  any  participation  of  the 
body  and  blood  of  the  Son  of  God ;  let  him  stand 
at  last  with  the  traitor  Judas  at  the  left  hand,  and, 
unless  he  repents  and  makes  satisfaction,  let  the 
vile  apostate  never  be  forgiven  either  in  this  life  or 
in  that  to  come  ;  but  let  him  be  thrust  down  with 
Ananias  and  Sapphira  to  the  bottom  of  hell,  where 
let  him  be  tormented  for  ever."  And  this  said 
charter  beareth  the  date  981. 


84  Friar  Hildebrand 's  Cross. 

Ordulphus,  having  thus  eased  his  soul,  and  given 
a  great  and  worthilie  munificent  gift  unto  his 
countrymen,  proceedeth  to  take  care  likewise  for 
the  welfare  of  his  sweet  ladye  and  their  goodlie 
offspring ;  and  herein,  as  in  all  previous  matters, 
he  showeth  himself  both  bountifull  and  wise.  Nor 
was  he  less  praiseworthie  for  an  abundance  of 
hospitalitie  both  to  rich  and  poor  and  strangers, 
and  for  making  his  pleasant  domain  a  meeting, 
place  for  many  and  various  people,  who  delighted 
in  its  beautie  and  in  the  kindlinesse  of  its  inmates. 
But  while  this  great  and  good  and  noble  man 
was  still  in  the  full  and  midday  glorie  of  his 
manhood ;  Death,  wrapped  in  his  gloomie  mantle, 
cometh  on  apace  to  meet  him,  and  neither  the  love 
of  wife  and  children,  nor  the  wishes  of  many 
friends,  could  stay  his  departure,  he  being  so 
abundantlie  prepared  for  translation  to  a  higher 
sphere.  Then  might  be  heard  the  cries  and 
lamentations  of  the  whole  inhabitants  of  Tavy- 
stoke,  and  deep  sighs  and  groans  from  the  monks 
within  the  abbaye  walls,  to  whom  Duke  Ordulph 
had  been  rather  a  friend  than  a  mere  patron,  and 
even  the  little  children  of  the  farms  and  cottages 


Ye  Story  of  ye  Giant  Ordulph.       85 

shed  abundance  of  tears,  that  their  dear  great 
duke  was  dead,  having  found  his  heart  as  large 
to  their  wishes  and  hopes  as  his  body  was  mightie 
and  magnificent  to  their  eyes. 

And  it  becometh  me  to  tell  of  what  a  noble, 
genial  countenance  he  was ;  a  very  Samson  in 
mightie  build  and  strength,  but  no  whit  like  unto 
an  Israelite  in  countenance,  being  of  a  fair  skin, 
with  a  most  ruddy  glow  on  either  cheek,  a  pair  of 
bright  blue  eyes,  a  russet  beard,  with  hair  of  a 
somewhat  darker  shade,  a  finelie  chiselled  profile, 
and  a  mien  as  courteous  as  kindlie,  and  as  frank 
as  dignified  ;  add  unto  these  a  most  merrie  laugh 
and  a  loud  ringing  voice,  and  you  have  before  you 
the  picture  of  the  best  beloved  giant  that  hath  ever 
trod  our  English  soil. 

When  death  came  unto  the  fair  palace  of  the 
good  duke  to  strike  down  its  mainstay  and  sup- 
port, there  was  more  sorrow  within  the  heart  ol 
the  sweet  duchesse  than  we  have  words  to  show, 
yet  did  her  tender  heart  and  hands  comfort  him 
through  every  wearie  hour  of  his  illnesse,  and  her 
faithful  bosom  support  his  dying  head.  And  after 
the  holy  abbot  had  administered  to  him  the 


86  Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

absolution  and  the  sacrament  for  the  last  time, 
and  chanted  vespers  with  other  two  monks  in  his 
chamber,  they  left  him  to  the  care  of  Ethel,  who 
never  quitted  his  pallet  day  nor  night,  nor  gave 
him  up  to  any  stranger  hands,  being  marvellouslie 
supported  herein ;  till  sleep  seemed  purposelie  to 
cease  for  a  season  from  her  eyelids,  that  she  might 
fulfil  her  pious  dutie.  To  whom,  in  the  twilight 
of  that  summer's  day,  which  seemed  so  like  unto 
the  decline  of  his  summertide  of  life,  he  thus 
spake,  "My  dear  life,  eternitie  seems  before  me 
like  unto  a  golden,  sun-illumined  ocean,  into  which, 
a  river  at  its  fullest  and  broadest,  I  shall  presentlie 
flow,  so  gentlie,  so  happillie,  that  there  is  only  room 
for  the  one  regret,  that  I  cannot  take  thee  along 
with  me.  Ethel,  if  this  be  dying,  it  is  an  easy 
thing  to  die."  Then  he  pointeth  to  the  bowls  of 
sweet  lavender  and  luscious  honeysuckle,  gathered 
that  morning  from  the  plot  of  garden  ground,  and 
from  the  ducal  woods  by  his  own  boys  and  girls, 
wherewith  to  adorn  their  father's  chamber  and 
to  minister  to  his  pleasure,  for  he  ever  foved 
flowers.  "  The  fragrance  of  these  summer  blos- 
soms," saith  he,  "  will  be  merged  for  me  into  that 


Ye  Story  of  ye  Giant  Ordulph.       87 

land,  wherein  all  is  sweetnesse  and  joy  and  love." 
The  one  hand  of  his  wife  was  laid  tenderlie  upon 
his  forehead,  while  her  other  arm  encircled  his 
neck  as  his  head  lay  on  her  breast ;  he  turned  his 
blue  eyes  fondlie  upon  her — "  Thy  love,  my  Ethel, 
thy  goodnesse,  thy  charitie,  have  been  like  the 
music  of  silver  bells  in  my  ears,  calling  me  to  all 
things  holie  and  pure  and  right." 

"  Not  so,  my  husband,"  she  answereth  tenderlie  ; 
"  the  rather  have  thy  pietie  and  devotion  won  me 
to  seriousnesse  and  attention  to  my  most  solemn 
duties,  and  to  Divine  things." 

"  Then  have  we  helped  each  other,  sweet,"  quoth 
he,  and  gazeth  tenderlie  at  the  flowers  again. 

Then  troopeth  into  the  chamber  his  children 
for  their  father's  good-night  blessing — three  heartie 
boys  and  as  many  tender  girls,  all  eager  Cor  his 
kiss  and  caresse,  who  had  impersonated  to  them 
on  earth  the  All-Bountiful  Father  in  Heaven,  in 
that  he  had  never  wearied  to  bestow  goodlie  gifts 
upon  them,  and  the  richest  treasures  of  his  affec- 
tion. So  when  they  be  all  gone,  save  the  eldest 
boy,  never  doubting  in  their  innocent  hearts  that 
they  would  see  their  father  alive  upon  the  morrow, 


88  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

he  calleth  the  youth  unto  him,  and  exhorteth  him 
thus  :  "  Frithiof,  I  commit  unto  thy  tenderest  care 
this  dear  ladye,  thy  mother,  and  I  advise  thee  to 
look  well  unto  thy  own  heart,  that  all  thy  brothers 
and  sisters  may  see  somewhat  in  thee,  the  which 
they  may  properlie  and  naturallie  reverence.  For 
there  be  nothing  in  the  mere  fact  that  thou  wert 
born  before  them,  to  make  them  love  and  honour 
thee,  save  thou  doest  also  such  good  deeds  and 
speaketh  such  kind  words  as  shall  win  their  love. 
Be  thou,  therefore,  speciallie  afraid  to  make  thy 
greater  age  a  warrant  for  tyrannic  or  oppression 
of  thy  younger  brethren  and  thy  sweet  sisters,  and 
show  thyself  as  willing  to  take  good  advice  from 
them  as  thou  art  readie  to  give  it  to  them. 
Frithiof,  my  son,  thou  wilt  soon  be  the  Duke  of 
this  fair  and  pleasant  town  of  Tavystoke;  these 
smiling  domains  beside  the  lovelie  river,  which 
have  gladdened  my  eyes  since  boyhood,  descend 
unto  thee.  See  to  it,  my  son,  that  thou  makest 
good  use  of  thy  wealth,  while  I  go  to  inherit  a 
better  countrie." 

Then  there  cometh   a  strange   pallor   over  his 
face,  and  a  sweat  brake  out  on  his  forehead,  the 


Ye  Story  of  ye  Giant  Ordulpk.       89 

which  Ethel  with  her  soft  kerchief  wipeth  away, 
and  presseth  her  warm  lips  upon  his  cold  flesh. 
Once  more  he  turneth  his  blue  eyes  upon  her 
full  of  love,  and  then  he  gentlie  and  slowlie 
murmureth,  "Ethel,  my  own  fond  wife!"  and 
took  her  hand,  and  held  it  to  his  lips. 

The  sunlight  had  altogether  faded  from  out  the 
room  ;  it  was  fast  growing  dim.  Frithiof  knelt  by 
his  father's  couch,  and  held  his  hand  between  his 
firm  young  grasp.  There  was  a  long  silence, 
whilst  Duke  Ordulph  lay  motionlesse,  his  eyes 
shut  Once  more  he  opened  them  :  "  Frithiof," 
saith  he,  "  remember  there  is  nothing  for  a  Chris- 
tian to  fear  in  death." 

"Oh!  father,"  sobbed  the  youth,  "if  I  could 
onlie  be  sure  of  dying  as  thou  diest" 

"Nothing  to  fear,  my  Ethel,"  repeated  the 
dying  man,  turning  his  head  a  little,  the  better 
to  gaze  at  her. 

"Nothing,  dear  heart,"  she  saith  softlie,  her 
whole  soul  in  her  answering  look  of  love.  There- 
upon he  giveth  a  faint  sigh,  as  peaceful  as  that 
of  a  sleeping  child  upon  his  mother's  bosom,  and 
the  great  soul  departed.  They  buried  him  in  a 


go  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

huge  sarcophagus,  made  expressly  for  his  giant 
clay,  in  the  churchyard  of  the  abbaye  church  of 
St.  Mary  and  Renan  at  Tavystoke,  wherein  were 
also  laid,  many  years  after,  the  mortal  remains 
of  his  well-beloved  wife,  the  faire  Duchess  Ethel. 
But,  without  doubt,  his. most  precious  monument 
is  to  be  found  in  the  faire  proportions  of  the 
mightie  abbaye  of  which  he  was  the  generous 
founder. 

Here  endeth  ye  true  history  of  Duke  Ordulphus 
and  ye  Abbaye  of  Tavystoke. 


MISGIVINGS. 

7 


CHAPTER  VII. 

MISGIVINGS. 

MAY  3Oth,  1522. — I  have  read  over  my  copy  of 
this  old  manuscript  with  much  interest ;  the  Giant 
rises  before  me  as  I  read,  the  great,  good,  genial- 
hearted  man  of  whom  the  little  children  had  no 
awe,  because  his  kindliness  matched  so  well  his 
immense  stature.  Surely  my  pencil  may  well  love 
to  linger  amongst  the  warm,  ruddy  hues  of  his 
great  beard  and  his  flowing  locks,  through  and 
in  which  tiny  child  hands  nestled  and  strayed, 
fearing  nothing,  because  of  the  Christlike  nature 
of  the  mighty  man,  strong  as  tender,  and,  better 
still,  tender  as  strong.  So  will  I  draw  him, 
amongst  the  village  children  on  the  green,  with 
half  a  dozen  of  the  smallest  and  fairest  clustering 
on  his  knees  and  shoulders.  How  much  I  do 
admire  and  reverence  and  love  thee,  oh !  thou 
dear  and  honoured  founder  of  this  my  beloved 

93 


94  Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

abbaye ;  and  as  I  pass  thy  tomb,  or  gaze  upon 
it  from  those  windows  of  our  abbot's  palace,  which 
are  exactly  opposite  the  church  and  churchyard, 
I  seem  to  have  known  thee  as  well — ay,  and 
better  far  than  I  know  many  of  my  brother 
monks.  There  is  no  separation  between  us,  spite 
of  difference  of  rank  and  fortune  and  size  and 
strength,  when  my  heart  beats,  as  it  does  now, 
in  such  close  unison  with  thine ;  and  I  thank  thee 
that  thou  on  earth  livedst  so  true,  so  fair,  so  pure 
a  life.  Again  the  thought  crosses  my  puzzled 
brain  that  those  lives  which  have  been  devoted 
to  home  loves,  which  have  echoed  God's  father- 
hood in  their  own  homes  and  to  their  own 
children,  seem  to  have  in  them  the  most  of  what 
is  Divine.  Yet  is  it  not  natural  to  suppose  that 
if  we  give  up  all  our  affections  to  God,  surrender- 
ing them  upon  the  altar  of  devotion  and  dedi- 
cation, we  should  be  freer  to  worship  Him  fully 
to  offer  to  Him  our  time  and  every  other  talent 
with  which  He  has  endowed  us  ?  But  do  any 
of  us  give  up  all  to  God  because  we  profess  to 
live  the  lives  of  religious  men  ?  Is  there  more 
of  sanctity,  Jess  of  selfishness,  in  this  old  abbaye 


Misgivings.  95 

than  in  the  mansion,  the  farmhouse,  and  the 
cottage  ?  I  blush  to  own  that  there  is  some 
impurity  amongst  us  ;  much,  very  much,  of  glut- 
tony and  excess  in  wine ;  above  all,  a  vast  deal 
of  cold  indifference  to  others.  This  immorality 
that  is  known,  although  it  is  not  openly  noticed ; 
these  orgies  that  we  excuse  as  our  only  allowed 
means  of  enjoyment ;  this  coldness,  this  uncharit- 
ableness ;  are  these  the  natural  outcomes  of  such 
a  community  as  ours  ?  and  if  so,  had  we  not  better 
be  dissolved  and  take  our  parts  in  life,  so  that  we 
may  have  at  least  some  important  occupations 
for  our  time?  I  write  all  these  strong  words  in 
no  bitterness  or  censoriousness  of  spirit 

I  am  sorely  perplexed  and  troubled.  Monastic 
life  is  not  what  I  expected.  Shall  I  dare  write 
the  words  ?  It  does  not  satisfy  my  soul  as  I 
believed  it  would  have  done.  Yet  why  should  I 
complain  ?  Are  not  my  own  foolish  fancies,  my 
own  wild  dreams,  my  ever  restless  spirit,  the 
very  things  which  prevent  its  satisfying  me,  and 
help  also  to  prevent  its  perfection  ? 

If  a  monastery  such  as  this  is  ever  to  be  a  pure 
assemblage  of  pure  souls  bent  on  nothing  so  much 


96  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

as  on  worshipping  God,  this  must  come  to  pass 
by  every  individual  monk  striving  to  become  pure 
as  in  the  sight  of  God  ;  striving  to  faithfully  fulfil 
his  vows ;  striving  to  cast  out  from  his  nature  all 
that  makes  the  monastic  life  unbearable  to  him. 
I  think,  without  risk  of  being  contradicted  by  any 
one,  should  any  one  besides  myself  ever  read  these 
words  of  mine,  I  may  divide  our  little  colony  of 
men  into  three  portions.  First,  those  who  are 
really  white  in  soul,  and  who  live  so  simply  near 
to  God,  that  though  they  may  see  less  of  His 
sunshine  than  some  others,  are  yet  very  soberly 
and  very  sweetly  at  peace.  Part  of  these,  like  the 
saints  who  have  already  crossed  the  Jordan,  that 
river  of  death,  have  "  come  out  of  great  tribula- 
tion " ;  their  trials  have  been  the  stepping-stones 
by  which  they  have  crossed  over  to  quietude  and 
trust.  Others  of  this  first  class  are  men  of  small 
minds,  few  aspirations,  few  temptations,  and  they 
have  set  the  whole  of  their  limited  intellect  and 
affections  into  one  groove.  These  latter  are 
mostly  austere,  but  they  are  well  satisfied. 

The  second  class  of  monks  have  become  monks 
less  by  any  inclination  and  self-denial  and   self- 


Misgivings.  97 

dedication,  than  by  the  mere  force  of  circum- 
stances. It  is  almost  necessary  in  these  days  that 
some  one  member  of  a  family,  especially  if  the 
family  be  large,  should  embrace  a  monastic  life. 
These  have  small  thought  of  being  mere  "  religious 
men."  Their  aim  is  at  once  to  keep  from  flagrant 
scandal,  and  at  the  same  time  to  enjoy  as  much 
as  possible  the  pleasures  of  men  who  are  outside 
the  walls  of  a  monastery.  Good  cheer,  good  wine, 
games  of  chance,  the  chase,  and  in  very  many 
instances  the  attractions  of  female  beauty,  are  all 
either  publicly  or  privately  indulged  in ;  and 
though  they  are  censured  by  the  truer  and  more 
devout  members  of  our  order,  this  class  finds  so 
much  sanction  in  many  abbeys  and  cloisters  from 
those  who  are  in  authority  over  us,  as  to  make 
our  "jolly  friars"  very  careless  of  blame. 

Of  the  third  class  I  avow  myself  a  member. 
We  are  men  with  yearnings  for  the  higher,  more 
sanctified  life  of  our  spiritual  brethren,  yet  who 
cannot,  do  what  we  will,  isolate  ourselves  from  this 
great  throbbing,  pulsing  world  of  men  and  ani- 
mals, and  trees  and  flowers,  which  is  outside  of  us 
as  monks,  and  which  we  yet  feel  to  be  the  creation 


98  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

of  God,  as  we  ourselves  are,  and  not  outside  of 
Him.  We  cannot  be  quiescent  in  our  higher 
degree  of  holiness,  as  the  first  class  of  our  monks 
is,  for  we  question  whether  we  possess  any  higher 
degree  of  holiness  than  other  men,  spite  of  our 
gowns  and  girdles  and  crosses  and  shaven 
crowns.  We  cannot  either  carelessly  become 
worldly  monks,  such  as  the  second  class,  for  we 
dare  not  forget  our  vows  of  temperance,  chastity, 
celibacy,  and  devotion.  It  must  have  been  easier, 
methinks,  to  be  a  monk  in  the  old  Crusading  days 
than  now,  for  there  was  hard  fighting  to  be  done, 
a  stern  manly  life  to  be  lived,  and  furious  battling 
to  redeem  from  the  hands  of  infidels  the  Holy 
Sepulchre,  once  the  resting-place  of  our  crucified 
Lord,  and  therefore  dear  to  Christians  for  ever 
more. 

And  yet,  oh !  yet,  were  not  even  the  infidels, 
whose  blood  Templar  and  Crusader  and  Knight 
of  St  John  poured  out  so  carelessly,  just  as 
dear  to  the  Divine  Son  of  God,  who 'died  for  all 
men,  as  that  one  piece  of  ground  wherein  His 
body  rested  for  a  few  brief  hours  from  out  the 
countless  days  of  His  eternal  life. 


Misgivings.  99 

It  is  very  certain  that  I  must  work  rather  than 
think.  Thought  becomes  so  intense,  so  multiform, 
so  complicated,  even  at  times  so  oppressive,  that 
my  brain  refuses  even  to  rest  at  night,  and  I  turn 
wearily  hither  and  thither  on  my  sleepless  couch, 
puzzling  myself  with  metaphysical  problems  that 
I  try  in  vain  to  answer.  I  will  cling  at  least 
to  some  great  sublime  truths  which  shine  like  stars 
through  the  murky  gloom  of  this  my  mental 
cloudland. 

God  is  good. 

God  cannot  change, 

God  cannot  err. 

The  world  is  God's  workmanship,  and  is  in  the 
hands  of  this  good,  unchanging,  unerring  God. 

I  am  part  of  created  nature:  therefore  I  too 
am  in  this  Divine  keeping.  My  prayer  is  an  echo 
of  the  Psalmist's,  "  Keep  me  as  the  apple  of  the 
eye  ;  hide  me  under  the  shadow  of  Thy  wings." 

It  is  a  strange  thing  that,  with  all  my  imper- 
fections, all  my  difficulty  to  express  myself  even 
to  my  penitents,  I  am  a  favourite  confessor,  and 
especially  with  the  young.  Young  men  bring  me 
vexed  questions  of  thought  or  action  to  decide 


ioo          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

upon  as  if  I  were  their  judge  instead  of  their 
priest,  and  insist  upon  my  decision.  Young 
women  blushingly  own  to  me  the  tender  emotions 
of  their  hearts,  and  tell  me  of  their  fluttering 
aspirations  heavenward,  which  the  good  Lord 
sends  into  their  innocent  souls.  I  cannot  refuse 
to  hear  confessions ;  it  would  be  churlish,  and 
might  cut  me  off  from  a  means  of  usefulness  to 
my  fellows  ;  but  I  wish  they  would  choose  an 
older  and  a  wiser  man. 

Confession  must  be  right ;  it  is  a  cherished 
ordinance  of  our  Holy  Church,  but  it  is  an  awful 
thing  to  me  to  have  men  and  women  come  to  me 
as  to  God,  and  open  the  secrets  of  their  lives  and 
unveil  their  most  hidden  thoughts.  I  frankly  admit 
I  seldom  obtain  much  relief  myself  from  my  own 
attendance  at  the  confessional.  I  cannot  reveal 
myself  fully  to  any  man  ;  for  what  man,  even  what 
priest,  would  have  patience  to  listen  to  all  my 
strange,  incoherent  thoughts  and  semi-thoughts, 
desires,  and  pantings  and  ideas,  and  doubts  and 
misgivings  that  really  make  up  the  daily  life  of 
this  poor  trembling  heart  and  brain  ? 

Can  any  one  but  its  Maker  possess  the  key  to 


Misgivings.  101 

unlock  the  hidden  mysterious  yearnings  and  in- 
stincts of  my  being,  scarce  suspected  by  myself 
yet  which  cause  me  constant  perplexity?  Can 
any  one,  save  the  Master  Musician,  swell  the 
harmonies  and  cure  the  discords  that  run  through 
my  daily  life?  If  I  cannot  myself  confess  to 
another  my  whole  self,  what  right  have  I  to  expect 
others  to  confess  themselves  without  reserve  to 
me?  What  is  wrong  in  this  matter?  Who  is 
wrong  ? 

I  dare  not  probe,  as  many  confessors  declare 
it  is  our  duty  to  probe,  the  sensitive,  guileless 
hearts  of  the  young,  lest  I  should  inadvertently 
suggest  to  them  sins  of  which,  without  suggestion, 
they  may  never  be  guilty.  I  can  only  invite  them 
to  trust  me  with  any  difficulties  in  life  or  in  morals 
which  occur  to  them  in  their  daily  experience,  that 
we  may  talk  over  the  matter  together  as  father 
and  child,  and  ask  the  counsel  of  God  thereon. 

Father  and  child !  Ay,  and  if  the  young  have 
wise,  holy  parents,  capable  of  giving  them  instruc- 
tion, who  so  suitable  as  a  father  or  a  mother  to 
listen  to  the  doubts  and  faults  and  perplexities 
of  their  children?  This  thought  leads  me 


Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

straightway  to  another  —  is  not  God  the  All 
Father?  Christ  the  Universal  Brother?  Does 
not  the  Almighty  know  as  none  else  can  ?  Is 
not  His  ear  the  true  confessional  of  a  world  ? 
"Hildebrand,  thou  art  beside  thyself.", 
Yes,  that  is  what  half  at  least  of  our  community 
would  say,  did  they  listen  to  my  full  confession. 
I  think  it  is  very  true  that  I  can  do  myself  no 
good  by  pursuing  these  meditations.  I  will  rest 
my  brain  on  these  subjects  by  bringing  my  palette 
and  my  brushes,  and  sketching  our  noble  giant 
founder,  Ordulph.  I  have  been  dreaming  too 
much  and  too  long  to-day. 


"YE  STORY  OF  YE  PRIEST  AND 
YE  CLOISTER,  TOGETHER 
WITH  SOME  PARTICULARS 
RESPECTING  YE  DESTRUC- 
TION OF  YE  ABBAYE  OF 
TAVYSTOKE  BY  YE  DANES 
IN  YE  YEAR  997." 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

«•  YE  STORY  OF  YE  PRIEST  AND  YE  CLOISTER, 
TOGETHER  WITH  SOME  PARTICULARS  RE- 
SPECTING  YE  DESTRUCTION  OF  YE  ABB  AYE 
OF  TAVYSTOKE  BY  YE  DANES  IN  YE  YEAR 
997." 

I  SEEK,  in  the  arrangement  of  my  treasured  old 
manuscripts,  from  which  I  have  tenderly  and 
reverently  removed  the  cobwebs  and  dust  of 
years  which  had  accumulated  upon  them,  to 
copy  them  in  rightful  order  as  to  time,  thereby 
the  better  to  instruct  myself  and  those  who 
shall  read  them  after  me.  And  the  next  relates 
to  an  important  event  indeed,  the  burning  of 
our  abbey  by  the  ferocious  Danes.  But  for  very 
close  reasons  this  manuscript  has  had  a  wondrous, 
almost  a  weird,  effect  upon  me.  Thus  it  reads : — 

In    this    year    997,    as    in    years    before    and 
after,   did    those    scourges    of    ye    sea,    viz.,    ye 

105 


io6          Friar  Hildebrami's  Cross. 

Northmen  or  Danes,  as  they  are  variouslie 
stiled,  grievouslie  infest  and  devastate  our  fair 
Englande.  In  ye  autumn  of  ye  said  yeare, 
being  prowling  about,  with  a  fleet  of  vessels, 
containing  not  less  than  two  thousand  of  armed 
men,  in  ye  south-western  parts  of  England,  they 
did  perceive  that  commodious  and  safe  haven 
of  Tamerwoerth,  where  into  the  river  Tamer 
emptieth  itself,  and  whereby  is  situated  ye  town 
of  Sutton,*  divided  into  two  parts — Sutton  Prior 
and  Sutton  Vaultort — the  one  part  belonging 
unto  ye  Lord  Vaultort,  ye  other  unto  Plympton 
Priory.  These  Danes,  being  minded  to  commit 
ruine  and  waste  in  some  quarter,  no  matter 
where,  so  long  as  it  promiseth  plunder,  steer 
straightway  up  that  commodious  river,  having 
heard  that  there  lieth  somewhere  thereabouts  ye 
rich  and  goodlie  abbaye  of  Tavystoke,  not  finished 
much  more  than  thirty  years  before,  by  ye 
pious  Duke  Ordulphus.  And  because  there  was 
nothing  sweeter  to  these  monsters'  lips  than 
bloode  and  gold,  and  they  knew  that  monks 
were  peaceable  folk,  and  abbayes  wealthy,  they 
*  Modern  Plymouth. 


Ye  Story  of  ye  Priest  and  ye  Cloister.   107 

took  no  small  pains  to  discover  ye  exact  direction 
in  ye  which  they  must  march.  After  that  they 
had  landed  at  a  place  thereafter  called  Danes' 
Coombe,  ye  river  ceaseth  to  afford  them  passage, 
as  if  unwilling  to  conduct  a  foe  to  so  much 
goodlie  buildings,  and  so  many  kindlie  natures. 
Being  come  almost  suddenlie, — without  above 
half-an-hour's  warning,  and  that  from  a  poor  serf, 
who  had  espied  them  as  he  was  busy  plough- 
ing,— upon  this  poor  defenceless  little  colony 
of  black  monks,  these  latter  set  themselves  to 
work  vigorouslie  to  hide  ye  gold  and  silver  of 
their  altar  plate,  together  with  ye  most  costlie 
and  valuable  of  their  belongings,  and  to  arrange 
for  their  safe  flight  as  speedilie  as  possible. 
But  all  too  soon,  and  before  half  was  done,  ye 
enemy  was  upon  them,  awing  and  terrifying  by 
their  ferocious  countenances  and  terrible  weapons 
as  well  ye  serfs  of  ye  Duke  Frithiof  as  those  of 
ye  abbaye,  and  paralysing  every  arm  that  should 
have  been  raised  in  defence  of  these  holy  men. 
With  one  part  of  their,  number  do  ye  Northmen 
surround  ye  abbaye  walls,  and  guard  themselves 
from  unexpected  attack,  and  cut  off  escape, 


io8          Friar  Hildebrand  's  Cross. 

while  ye  rest  hasten  through  ye  cells  of  ye 
monks,  and  to  ye  Church  of  St  Mary,  and  ye 
Abbot's  Palace.  Nor  do  they  forget  to  make 
inroads  upon  ye  cellars  and  Still  House,  which 
abutteth  ye  river,  wherein  they  do  most  readilie 
and  greedilie  drain  and  devour  as  well  ye  strong 
spirits  as  ye  milder  cyder  and  ale  and  mead 
which  are  therein  a-brewing.  So,  being  come 
out  again,  they  are  ye  more  prepared  than 
before,  being  now  drunk,  to  commit  horrible 
enormities  and  extravagancies,  which  they  cease 
not  to  doe,  with  fierce  calls  ye  while  upon  their 
false  gods  to  aid  them. 

And  all  this  time  there  is  a  strange  passage 
of  human  nature  being  enacted  within  one  of  ye 
cells,  whereunto  as  yet  they  have  not  penetrated, 
but  where  ye  sound  of  ye  mischief  they  work 
is  plainlie  to  be  heard.  And  in  this  cell  there 
are  two  occupants  ;  ye  one,  a  monk,  habited  in 
ye  black  gown  and  coarse  girdle,  with  ye  iron 
cross  and  rosary  of  his  order  upon  his  breast, 
and  ye  other  a  boy,  one  of  ye  chorister  boys  of 
ye  said  abbaye.  Upon  ye  face  of  ye  man 
there  is  a  sad  and  penitent  look,  as  of  one  that 


Ye  Story  of  ye  Priest  and  ye  Cloister.   109 

repenteth  him  of  some  dire  sin,  while  ye  innocent 
child  looketh  up  at  him  with  an  unfeigned  sur- 
prise ;  and  soe  are  they  both  very  faire  to  look 
upon,  each  being  of  a  goodlie  countenance;  and 
now  that  we  do  regard  them  attentively,  we 
behold  both  to  be  of  ye  same  faire  skin,  ye  same 
bright  coloured  blue  eyes,  and  ye  same  flaxen 
hair,  while  neither  in  outline  of  brow  nor  chin 
can  one  detect  any  other  difference,  save  that 
ye  man's  are  harder,  and  more  settled  and  stern, 
than  ye  child's.  And  there  is  a  great  and 
terrible  yearning  in  his  eyes  and  wistful  look 
upon  his  brow,  and  as  he  bendeth  down  unto 
ye  boy  who  standeth  at  his  knee,  he  trieth  and 
trieth,  but  as  it  seemeth  in  vain,  to  speak.  There 
are  louder  noises  in  the  distance,  shouts  and 
wild  laughter  from  ye  fierce  Danes,  and  helplesse 
cries  from  ye  monks ;  and  in  a  passion,  as  it 
would  appear,  of  remorse  and  agony,  ye  monk 
now  lifteth  ye  boy  from  ye  ground  and  straineth 
him  wildlie  to  his  heart,  ye  while  he  waileth 
piteouslie,  with  great  teares  rolling  down  his  face, 
and  his  chest  heaving  with  suppressed  emotion. 
"  Oh  !  my  son,  my  son,  would  to  God  I  could 


no          Friar  Hildebrand 's  Cross. 

die  for  thee,  my  son,  my  son!"  So  doth  he 
repeat  ye  plaintive  words  of  ye  prophet  King 
David,  in  as  sore  distresse. 

Ye  boy  looketh  wistfullie  in  his  turn  upon  ye 
friar's  face,  and  layeth  his  young  head  quite 
trustfullie  upon  ye  shoulder  of  ye  Augustinian, 
and  speaketh  ye  pretty  innocent  words  of  cheer, 
with  which  a  child  oft-times  comforteth,  in  sore 
trouble,  those  who  belong  unto  him.  But  at 
every  affectionate  caress  of  ye  little  one  ye  monk 
trembleth  ye  more.  Then  there  is  some  silence 
betwixt  them,  and  ye  sounds  of  ye  dread  visitants 
to  ye  abbaye  grow  sharper  to  their  ears. 

"Arthur,"  saith  ye  monk,  in  a  dry,  hard  voice, 
so  strangelie  at  variance  with  ye  tendernesse  of 
his  eyes,  and  ye  kisses  he  showers  upon  ye  boy's 
wondering  face,  "  Arthur,  listen  to  me ! " 

"I  am  listening,  Friar  Ethelbert,"  saith  ye 
boy. 

There  were  still  louder  noises  without,  and  ye 
child  hid  his  face  upon  ye  monk's  shoulder, 
while  Ethelbert  held  him  in  a  tighter  embrace. 

"Ye  fierce  Northmen  come  nearer  to  us, 
Arthur.  Death  may  be  close  at  hand.  I  dare 


Ye  Story  of  ye  Priest  and  ye  Cloister.    1 1 1 

not  die  with  my  sin  unconfessed  to  thee,  and  I 
pine,  perhaps  foolishlie — but  God  only  knows 
how  I  pine — to  hear,  if  but  for  once,  from  thy 
dear  lips  ye  name  which  belongs  to  me.  Arthur, 
thou  hast  never  before  known  thy  father.  I  will 
tell  thee  now  what  thou  askedst  me  but  yester- 
day, and  I  refused  thee.  Arthur,  do  not  hate  me 
— do  not  hate  the  monk  who  makes  confession  to 
thee — child  as  thou  art — of  his  broken  vows  and 
his  unsubdued  passions.  Love  me,  love  me  still, 
Arthur,  for  thou  art  indeed  my  son." 

And  that  Divine  instinct  of  tendernesse,  ye 
which  God  hath  implanted  between  parent  and 
child,  which  only  unnatural  harshnesse  and 
violence  can  ever  extinguish,  led  ye  boy  Arthur 
to  comfort  and  draw  himself  yet  closer  unto  ye 
arms  of  his  father,  whose  white,  sad  face  bespoke 
ye  sinceritie  of  his  repentance. 

"And  I  have  begotten  thee,  my  son,  to  such 
a  cruel  fate  as  this.  O  God!  surelie  now  hast 
Thou  punished  me  for  my  weaknesse,  my  sin. 
How  often,  O  Lord,  I  have  wondered  at  ye 
tendernesse  of  Thy  mercy,  when  month  after 
month,  yeare  after  yeare,  ye  child  was  spared 


1 1 2          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

unto  me,  and  grew  up  beside  me,  loving,  and 
gentle,  and  fond,  coming  dailie  from  his  cottage 
home,  and  his  sweet  mother's  care  to  learn  ye 
things  of  time  and  of  eternitie  at  his  unknown 
father's  knee;  and  singing  Thy  praises  dailie 
with  a  voice  so  full  of  delicacie  and  beautie, 
that  I  felt  a  pride  in  him  as  my  son,  that  was, 
alas !  but  a  new  form  of  sin.  But  now  it  all 
ends— oh,  my  God!  how  it  ends:  ye  gentle 
mother,  whom  I  wronged,  left  to  a  sad,  perhaps 
a  terrible  fate  in  her  lonely  cottage,  and  ye  boy 
we  both  of  us  loved,  to  be  smitten,  cursed, 
perhaps  wholly  withered,  perhaps  carried  off  a 
prey,  a  spoil,  to  ye  cruel  Northmen's  home ; 
while  I,  ye  cause  of  all  ye  misery,  can  at  ye 
worst  only  die,  and  cannot — Oh,  God !  Thou 
wilt  not  permit  me  to — prevent  ye  consequences 
of  my  sin.  "  Surely  " — and  here  ye  strong  man 
writhed  in  his  agony — "surely  this  is  a  punish- 
ment greater  than  I  can  bear!  Arthur,  Arthur! 
what  thinkest  thou  ?  Speak  to  me,  dearest  child, 
if  it  be  but  to  curse  me  that  I  am  thy  father." 

The    face    of    Friar    Ethelbert    was     working 
terribly,   his    weary    soul    looked    out    from    his 


Ye  Story  of  ye  Priest  and  ye  Cloister.     1 13 

haggard  eyes,  his  wan  lips  trembled  with  ye 
conflict  within,  his  cheeks  were  ashen  pale,  and 
drops  of  perspiration  stood  thick  upon  his  fore- 
head. But  for  answer  to  these,  his  passionate 
words,  ye  little  chorister  only  twined  his  child 
arms  ye  more  closelie  round  ye  monk's  neck,  and 
whispered  softlie;  "Dear  father,  thou  must  not 
speak  so,  thou  dost  frighten  me ;  I  love  thee 
dearlie,  and  that  thou  very  well  knowest,  and 
thou  hast  been  always  so  very  good  to  me." 

Like  ye  soft  summer  shower  unto  ye  thirsty 
ground  falleth  these  sweet  words  upon  ye  ears 
of  Ethelbert ;  ye  agonised  look  passeth  from  his 
face ;  ye  faintest  smile  cometh  back  to  his  pale 
lips ;  he  gazeth  tenderlie  into  his  child's  eyes, 
and  catcheth  something  of  ye  peace  reflected 
therein  from  his  innocent  heart 

"God  ever  bless  thee,  my  son,  Christ  and  His 
dear  mother  have  mercy  on  thee,  and  may  all 
ye  saints  protect  thee ! "  saith  he  in  broken 
accents.  But  there  was  no  time  for  more,  a 
rushing  sound  of  many  heavy  feet  along  ye 
corridor  without,  and  then  a  fierce  blow  from  a 
battle-axe  upon  ye  door  of  ye  cell,  and  in 


1 1 4          Friar  Hildebrand  's  Cross. 

there  poured,  jabbering  in  their  unknown  tongue, 
and  blustering  in  ye  pride  of  conquest,  a  score 
and  more  of  ye  fierce  Northmen,  their  faces 
all  flushed  with  strong  drink,  their  long  golden 
locks  waving  upon  their  shoulders,  their  eyes 
blue  as  ye  steel  of  their  weapons,  gleaming 
fiercely.  Whereat  Arthur  fasteneth  himself  close- 
lie  into  his  father's  arms,  and  trembleth  like  ye 
autumn  leaf  when  ye  storm  is  loud  and  it  must 
soon  fall.  But  Ethelbert  half  springeth  to  his 
feet,  and  clappeth  his  hand  unto  his  side  in- 
voluntarilie,  as  if  at  one  time  he  had  been  used 
to  find  a  sword  there  not  unreadie  for  use.  Then 
he  remembereth  his  helplessnesse,  and  sinketh 
down  again  with  a  groane,  and  only  placeth  his 
boy  somewhat  behind  him,  ye  better  to  defend 
him  from  assault.  Then  cometh  forwarde  one  of 
ye  Northmen,  and  speaketh  in  ye  English  tongue. 
"  Hast  thou  any  treasures  here  in  thy  cell,  oh 
monk?"  To  which  Ethelbert  replieth  calmlie, 
"  None,  save  this  boy,  whose  innocent  life  I  pray 
you  to  spare,  he  being  not  an  inmate  of  this 
unhappy  abbaye,  but  belonging  unto  ye  town  of 
Tavystoke  adjoyning." 


Ye  Story  of  ye  Priest  and  ye  Cloister.    \  15 

"  Now  do  I  verilie  believe,  for  all  thou  art  a 
monk,  and  therefore,  not  allowed  to  possess  such 
belongings,"  exclaimeth  ye  Northman  coarselie, 
"  that  ye  boy  is  thine  own  son  " ;  and  he  flasheth 
his  keen  eyes  quicklie  from  ye  one  to  ye  other, 
and  with  a  loud  laugh  uttereth  somewhat  to  his 
companions  in  their  own  tongue.  At  which  ye 
face  of  ye  friar  grew  crimson,  and  then  ye  flush 
died  suddenlie  away  and  left  him  pale  as  before, 
as  ye  passion  with  which  he  resenteth  ye  insult 
giveth  way  to  his  true  penitence  of  heart 

"  Come  along  with  us,"  saith  ye  Northman, 
and  Ethelbert  keepeth  firm  hold  of  Arthur,  and 
prepareth  to  follow.  And  now,  what  sights  and 
sounds  afflict  him,  and  what  a  ghastlie  appear- 
ance hath  ye  once  fair  abbaye!  here  are  dying 
monks  lying  groaning  upon  ye  ground ;  here  are 
ye  dead  still  seated  in  their  chaires,  stabbed  fatally 
by  ye  cruel  knives  of  ye  marauders.  It  is  truly 
more  like  unto  a  battle-field  than  aught  besides, 
but  a  battle-field  in  a  house ;  and  curiously  there 
mingleth  with  ye  dead  and  dying  ye  broken 
crucifixes,  ye  scattered  rosaries,  ye  dishonoured 
Host,  ye  torn  vestures  of  ye  priests,  on  all  of 


1 1 6          Friar  Htldebrand's  Cross. 

which  sacrilegious  hands  have  done  their  worst, 
ye  while  battered  furniture  and  various  pewter 
pots  and  mugs  lie  about  in  ye  greatest  disorder 
upon  ye  rushes  that  bestrew  ye  floor. 

"Alas!  alas!  how  are  we  stripped  and  wasted," 
quoth  ye  friar  unto  his  son ;  "  how  hath  ye  glory 
of  this  our  fair  abbaye  departed  ! " 

But  even  while  he  spake,  a  worse  misfortune 
befalleth  them,  for  as  they  lingered,  ye  North- 
men have  advanced  and  left  them  behind,  in 
order  ye  better  to  discuss  ye  ruine  of  ye  house, 
while  they  perfect  their  own  safetie.  And  now, 
thick  and  fast  cometh  upon  them,  and  around 
them,  ye  lurid  glare  of  a  fire  brightening  ye 
twilight  which  had  begun  to  fall  upon  ye  earth, 
and  presentlie  to  brighten  it  still  more  for  many 
miles  around,  as  ye  chief  buildings  of  ye  abbaye, 
reared  with  so  much  paines  by  pious  Ordulph, 
give  way  to  ye  brutal  designs  of  ye  Danes. 

"  Let  us  fly,  Arthur,  let  us  fly,"  saith  Ethelbert, 
in  a  voice  of  horror,  as  ye  flames  shot  past  ye 
windows,  and  they  sped  hastily  from  one  vast 
room  to  another,  and  from  cell  to  cell,  pausing 
only  at  ye  terrified  cries  of  ye  dying,  to  hand 


Ye  Story  of  ye  Priest  and  ye  Cloister.    1 1 7 

ye  drop  of  cold  water,  or  to  cheer  in  ye  moments 
of  ye  last  agony  with  ye  whispered  benediction 
of  ye  church. 

They  come  at  last,  this  father  and  this  son, 
to  a  small  and  secret  door  which  opened  into  a 
covered  way  that  leadeth  to  ye  Abbot's  garden ; 
and  here  Friar  Ethelbert  pauseth,  and  embraceth 
his  young  son:  "Go  thy  ways,  my  beloved," 
saith  he,  "seek  thy  gentle  mother,  and  bear  to 
her  my  last  blessing,  and  my  last  prayer  for  her 
forgiveness.  Tell  her  while  life  is  left  to  me, 
ere  ye  fierce  flames  seize  my  trembling  limbs, 
old  memories  are  sweet  to  me,  and  that  I  bear 
her,  my  Eleanor,  and  thou,  my  Arthur,  on  my 
heart  before  God.  Leave  me,  dear  child,  leave 
me ;  oh  !  stay  not,  sweet  son,  else  will  thy  sor- 
rowing mother  have  nought  to  comfort  her.  For 
me,  I  must  go  back  unto  my  brethren,  happy  if 
I  die  while  I  strive  somewhat  to  expiate  ye 
past  by  handing  ye  cup  of  cold  water  to  ye 
disciples  of  my  forgiving  Lord." 

And  so  he  turneth,  and  refuseth  to  be  held  by 
ye  constraining  arms  of  ye  loving  child,  who  but 
for  that  great  affection  he  bore  unto  his  mother, 


ii8          Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

would  fain  return  with  him,  whom  he  had  but  so 
latelie  learned  to  call  "  Father."  Now,  Ethelbert, 
ye  separation  over,  and  therefore  ye  bitternesse 
of  death  past,  pursueth  his  way  with  calm  step 
and  unruffled  brow,  and  dieth,  as  ye  Northman 
himself  afterwards  testifieth,  ye  death  of  a  hero, 
while  he  nurseth  ye  wounded  monks  amongst  ye 
burning  abbaye.  Arthur,  who  escapeth,  though 
his  fair  mother  doth  not,  ye  ravages  of  these 
foes  unto  God  and  man,  entereth  ye  service  of  . 
Duke  Frithiof,  and  hath  himself,  being  now  a 
man  of  mature  years,  related  unto  me  this  touch- 
ing history  which  I  do  here  and  at  this  time 
recorde. 

Signed,  Humfry.  Dated  ye  ninth  day  of  ye 
month  of  June,  in  ye  yeare  of  our  Lord's  incar- 
nation, 1042,  being  ye  second  yeare  of  ye  King 
Edward  ye  Confessor. 


CICELY'S    SECRET. 


CHAPTER    IX 

CICELY'S  SECRET. 

AUGUST  2oth,  1522. — We  are  now  come  to  the 
full  glory  of  our  harvest  moon,  and  the  work 
amongst  the  golden  corn  proceeds  with  great 
diligence.  It  is  long  since  I  have  made  an  entry 
in  this  diary.  I  have  finished  and  illuminated, 
much  to  the  satisfaction  of  my  brother  monks, 
the  old  manuscripts  I  have  already  transcribed 
Happily  several  more  remain  to  engage  my  atten- 
tion. I  say  "  happily,"  for  my  heart  has  been  so 
tossed  and  overwhelmed  with  the  billows  of  my 
unsubdued  passion  for  the  sweet  maiden  Cicely, 
that  the  summer  glories  in  which  I  have  hitherto 
delighted  have  rather  mocked  than  comforted  me. 
The  latest  copied,  and  to  me,  as  it  seemed,  most 
touching  story  of  the  monk  and  the  youthful 
chorister,  still  strangely  moves  me.  I  have  drawn 
a  picture  of  the  boy  beside  his  father's  knee  in 


122  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

the  Friar  Ethelbert's  cell ;  and  another,  of  their 
pausing  amidst  the  ruins  to  comfort  the  dying ; 
and  a  third,  of  the  parting  at  the  entrance  to  the 
Abbot's  garden,  when  the  boy  looked  back  at 
his  father  and  saw  him  advancing  as  firmly  to 
his  death  as  ever  a  British  soldier  since  marched 
to  victory  at  Cressy  or  Poictiers.  To  the  Abbot's 
garden !  To  that  selfsame  spot  I  have  more 
than  once  taken  Cicely,  in  order  that  I  might 
show  to  her  admiring  eyes  the  rich  red  roses 
from  Damascus,  which  the  Crusaders  brought  to 
increase  our  floral  treasures,  the  soft  velvety 
beauty  of  whose  bloom,  and  the  rich  lusciousness 
of  whose  fragrance  no  other  rose  can  surpass. 
From  this  rose  is  it  whence  is  distilled  the 
oleaginous  and  costly  Eastern  perfume  entitled 
attar  of  roses ;  and  of  its  petals  in  those  far-off 
sunny  lands,  as  divers  pilgrims  have  informed 
me,  is  made  a  confection  or  preserve  delicious 
to  the  palate. 

And  then  my  hand  trembled ;  I  laid  brush  and 
palette  and  paper  upon  my  easel,  and  threw 
myself  upon  my  knees,  and  wept  bitterer  tears 
than  I  had  ever  shed  before.  The  great  lesson  of 


Cicely's  Secret.  123 

Friar  Ethelbert's  life  was  before  me,  and  I  felt 
that,  act  as  I  would,  whether  I  conquered  my  love 
or  was  conquered  by  it,  I  must  bear  henceforth 
the  responsibility  of  having  learnt  it,  and  thereby, 
if  I  failed  to  profit  by  it,  add  unto  my  own  con- 
demnation. I  determined  to  shun  Cicely,  though 
her  sweet  presence  was  the  sunshine  to  my 
drooping  heart ;  to  shut  myself  within  the  Abbaye 
walls,  only  to  steal  out  at  early  dawn,  or  under 
the  quiet  stars  of  night,  when  I  could  not  hope 
to  meet  her.  Using  the  plea  of  having  much 
else  to  do,  I  gave  up  meeting  her  in  the  con- 
fessional, and  confided  her  to  a  venerable  old 
man,  purer  and  better  than  I  am.  I  almost 
dreamed  of  rivalling  Paolo  our  hermit. 

"  If  the  world  hath  such  attractions  for  thee, 
flee,  flee  altogether  from  it,"  I  heard  a  voice 
within  me  say  many  times  in  the  day,  and  oftener 
still,  in  the  lonely  hours  of  night,  when  I  took 
up  my  old  custom  of  haunting  the  tree-tops,  and 
listening  to  the  plashing  murmurs  of  the  dear 
old  Tavy  below  me.  Yet  what  a  remorseful, 
melancholy  sound  has  the  river's  voice!  Some- 
times as  I  sat  there  alone  with  the  soft  breeze 


124          Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

of  the  summer  night  playing  in  the  branches  of 
the  oak  above  and  around  me,  and  the  world 
and  the  monks  in  the  Abbaye  all  asleep,  even 
our  hermit  Paolo  stretched  on  his  bed  of  rushes 
in  his  little  cave  across  the  river,  I  did  not  wonder 
that  men  and  women,  compassed  by  some  sore 
trouble,  tormented  by  unforgiven  sin,  or  by  sharp 
temptation  to  commit  some  dreadful  deed,  plunged 
into  deep  pools  to  end  their  misery  by  death 
Yes,  if  indeed  it  were  thus  ended,  I  could  under- 
stand it  quite  well ;  but  how  know  we  that  our 
souls  will  not  then  be  attuned  to  yet  fiercer 
agony,  yet  more  bitter  remorse  ?  I  have  learnt 
nothing  as  yet  by  all  the  torture  I  have  under- 
gone, save  this  one  lesson — that  I  cannot  judge 
others ;  that  however  low  others  may  fall,  my 
only  surprise  need  be  that  so  many  stand,  know- 
ing my  heart  as  I  know  it — knowing  the  mad 
impulses  that  have  of  late  stirred  it,  the  wild 
longings  to  brave  anything,  everything,  for  one 
kiss,  one  smile  from  her  sweet  lips.  I  have  been 
very  near— oh,  Sancta  Maria,  forgive  me !  I  have 
been  so  much  too  near  to  cursing  these  vows  that 
I  once  took  upon  me  with  earnest  zeal  and  fresh, 


Cicely's  Secret.  125 

untried  elasticity  of  spirit.  Now  would  I  never 
accept  a  novice,  had  I  the  making  of  monks, 
unless  he  had  safely  passed  through,  and  come 
out  on  the  other  side  of,  this  whirlwind  of  love, 
that  enters  sooner  or  later  into  the  life  of  almost 
every  man.  God  helping  me,  I  will  not  openly 
break  my  vows,  and  draw  disgrace  upon  the 
Abbaye  and  condemnation  unto  my  own  soul ! 
God  helping  me,  I  will  not  do  that  far  worse  thing 
that  hath  been  done,  and  that  poor  Friar  Ethel- 
bert  repented  himself  of  doing,  with  so  many  and 
such  bitter  tears  !  But  if  I  would  keep  firm  unto 
these  my  resolves,  I  must  not  dare  to  see  Cicely. 
Close  to  her,  listening  to  her  voice,  beholding  her 
smile,  feeling  her  soft  hand  in  mine,  each  deter- 
mination would,  as  I  well  know,  take  swift  wings, 
and  leave  my  heart  weak  as  the  water  to  resist 
this  stone  I  throw  upon  it  now  from  the  window 
of  my  cell.  Plash !  it  drops  through  the  soft, 
yielding  fluid,  and  sinks  to  the  depths  below. 
So,  speedily,  if  I  did  but  give  it  leave,  would  my 
heart  sink  into  the  depths  of  self-gratification  and 
indulgence. 

September  1st,  1522. — My  sweet    Cicely   hath. 


126          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

with  her  own  soft  hands,  though  all  unwittingly, 
fastened  the  cross  upon  my  heart,  that  I  shall  bear, 
for  her  dear  sake,  unto  the  end  of  life.  Much  has 
happened  since  my  last  entry,  made,  as  I  see,  not 
fully  a  fortnight  ago.  I  was  sitting  early  one 
morning,  not  in  my  favourite  oak  by  the  river, 
but  upon  the  height  to  which  is  given  the  name 
of  White  Church  Down,  a  pleasant,  open  spot 
that  borders  upon  Dartmoor,  whence  is  an  excel- 
lent prospect  of  the  whole  country  for  many  miles 
around,  and  a  fine  view  of  that  strange  old  tor 
called  Brent  Tor,  surmounted  by  its  church  as 
with  a  crest  The  church  has  been  built  over 
three  hundred  years  by  a  merchant  of  Plymouth, 
who,  sailing  out,  and  being  met  by  fierce  storms, 
dedicated  the  first  point  of  English  land  he  should 
see,  if  spared,  to  the  erection  of  a  church.  This 
vow  he  here  fulfilled,  and  devoted  the  church 
unto  St.  Michael  de  Rupe,  and  this  land  belongs 
unto  our  fair  Abbaye. 

I  was  sitting  there  in  the  soft  beauty  ot  the 
autumn  morning,  when  the  tints  of  nature  are  so 
especially  lovely,  with  a  hazy  golden  light  capping 
the  distant  tors,  and  a  sky  above  me  of  pearl  and 


Cicely's  Secret.  127 

opal  and  azure,  one  colour  melting  into  the  other 
so  exquisitely — the  larks  all  around  me  were 
singing,  lifting  themselves  from  the  purple  heath 
flowers  into  the  fair  sky,  and  sending  down  upon 
my  ears  a  shower  of  music  as  they  rose,  and  then 
the  golden  sunlight  waxed  brighter  and  brighter, 
and  flooded  the  whole  earth, — and  I  lay  down  on 
the  warm,  springy  turf,  and  mused  as  was  my 
wont — mused  of  Cicely,  and  of  the  long  future 
of  my  life  without  her,  which  yet  was  each  day 
lessening  in  length,  and  which,  if  I  kept  "  faithful 
unto  death,"  should  happily  end  by-and-by.  For 
I  do  believe,  and  my  creed  would  be  sad  without 
this  faith,  that  in  heaven  we  shall  know  and 
rejoice  in  the  society  of  those  who  are  'dearest  to 
us  on  earth  ;  that  however  truly  human  relation- 
ships may  be  merged  into  the  higher  union  and 
communion  of  the  saints  and  angels  with  one 
another  and  with  Christ,  yet  that  the  affections 
He  has  planted  in  us,  will  there,  though  often  but 
in  bud  here,  bloom  and  blossom  to  all  eternity. 
So,  Cicely,  thought  I,  though  I  may  not  commune 
with  thee  here,  because  of  this  body  of  mine  and 
these  vows  I  have  taken,  which  are  so  sadly  at 


128  Friar  Hildebrand *s  Cross. 

variance  one  with  another,  yet,  beloved,  when 
immortal  life  begins,  I  shall  be  free  to  love  thee 
as  much  as  I  will,  for  I  then  can  only  love  thee 
purely,  and  I  may  listen  to  thy  voice  amongst  the 
angels,  in  a  land  where  there  are  no  monasteries 
and  there  is  no  need  for  monks.  There  was  a 
very  light  step  upon  the  turf  beside  me,  and  I 
grew  conscious  of  her  presence  even  before  she 
spoke  to  me.  Though  I  did  not  rise  for  a  moment. 
I  felt  the  blood  rush  to  my  face,  and  my  heart 
give  a  wild  throb  of  joy — a  joy  that  all  the  dis- 
cipline of  the  last  few  months  has  not  been  able 
to  quench.  As  I  rose  to  greet  her,  I  did  not  look 
nor  feel  in  the  least  like  a  grave,  stern  Augustinian 
who  had  renounced  the  world  and  its  affections, 

"  I  have  come  on  purpose  to  see  thee,  dear 
Friar  Hildebrand,"  she  began,  with,  if  possible, 
a  gentler  accent  than  usual.  "  Molly  told  me  thou 
wert  gone  along  the  road  towards  the  down,  and 
I  hastened  as  soon  as  I  could  to  come  here.  Why 
hast  thou  not  been  to  Tiddeybrook  of  late,  and 
what  art  thou  looking  so  thin  and  sad  for?  Hast 
thou  been  ill  ?  I  have  not  heard  of  it" 

"No,  Cicely,  no,"  I  said,  trembling  from  head 


Cicely's  Secret.  129 

to  foot,  and  delighting  in  her  presence  and  her 
tender  words,  wondering  what  might  be  the  pur- 
port of  this  sweet  interest  in  me,  feeling  repaid, 
oh!  so  amply  repaid,  for  all  the  sorrow  I  had 
endured,  and  as  if  the  present  joy  were  worth  a 
life  of  suffering. 

"  No,  dear  child,  I  am  not  ill." 

"  Hath  not  anything  been  the  matter,  dear  Friar 
Hildebrand  ?"  she  went  on,  taking  my  hand  as  she 
had  done  when  I  first  came  to  Tavystoke,  and  she 
was  still  but  a  child,  and  softly  smoothing  and 
patting  it  Then  I  looked  at  Cicely.  My  own 
confusion,  my  own  strong  emotion,  had  hitherto 
prevented  my  observing  that  she  too  had  some- 
what changed.  Her  beauty  had  ripened  in  the 
glory  of  those  summer  months,  a  fairer  bloom  was 
on  cheeks  and  lips,  and  as  I  gazed  at  her,  her 
eyes  were  downcast,  and  a  blush  flitted  hither  and 
thither  like  a  coy  bird  over  her  lovely  face.  For 
a  few  brief  minutes  I  flattered  myself  that  I  under- 
stood the  cause  of  her  wistfulness  and  her  tender 
anxiety — she  loved  me.  This  dear  innocent  heart, 
used  for  years  to  my  care  for  her,  had  missed  me, 
had  longed  for  me,  had  asked  herself,  "  Why  ? " 

K 


130          Friar  Hildebrand 's  Cross. 

and  had  acknowledged  in  the  inmost  recesses  of 
her  sweet  spirit  that  she  loved  me.  The  thought 
was  so  deliciously  joyous,  that,  afraid  of  some  rash 
act,  which  should  fright  her  from  my  side,  I  rose 
abruptly  and  paced  back  and  forward  for  some 
minutes,  without  another  word  to  her.  Then, 
coming  to  her  again,  I  sat  down  once  more.  She 
was  pulling  some  heath  flowers  to  pieces  ner- 
vously, and  the  little  petals  lay  scattered  over  her 
lap.  She  looked  not  up,  but  said  in  a  trembling 
voice : 

"Dost  thou  not  want  me  here,  Friar  Hilde- 
brand ?  I  have  sought  thee  these  many  weeks 
past,  for  I  have  somewhat  to  tell  thee.  I  thought 
thou  caredst  a  little  about  me." 

There  was  a  pretty  impatience  in  her  tone,  like 
that  of  a  spoiled  child. 

"  I  do  care  for  thee,  Cicely,  and  I  would  know 
all  that  thou  likest  to  tell  me,"  I  said.  My  voice 
was  unsteady.  "  Care  for  her "  ! — oh,  sweet  dar- 
ling of  my  heart,  the  "  care  "  was  tenderest  love ! 

"Dear  Friar  Hildebrand/'  she  said  softly,  and 
turned  her  blue  eyes  away  from  me,  for  which  I 
thanked  her  in  my  inmost  soul,  "so  much  has 


Cicely's  Secret.  131 

happened  unto  me  of  late.  Dost  thou  know  ? — no, 
thou  wilt  never  guess  it  of  such  a  child  as  I  am, 
somebody  loves  me," 

And  Cicely,  having  said  these  words,  hid  hei 
crimson  cheeks  in  her  hands,  and  paused  for  my 
answer. 

I  am  sore  afraid  I  must  have  disappointed  the 
dear  child.  For  some  minutes  I  could  not  speak. 
I  heard  the  larks  singing  up  into  the  sky,  but  my 
heart  was  out  of  tune  with  their  sweet  silvery 
music  ;  the  little  globes  of  sound  came  purling 
down  upon  the  sunshiny  landscape,  the  sheep-bells 
tinkled  in  the  distance  over  the  moorland,  the 
beetles  and  flies  and  bees  whirred  and  droned  and 
buzzed  over  the  turf  and  the  furze  bushes  in  all 
directions,  but  I  could  only  echo  the  words  that 
divided  Cicely  from  me,  more  even  than  my 
monk's  hood  or  my  solemn  vows — "  Somebody 
loves  me ! " 

Cicely  !  Cicely !  somebody  has  loved  thee  for  so 
long,  so  wildly,  so  passionately,  so  intently,  that 
he  has  done  nothing  else  but  love  thee.  "  Some- 
body loves  me!"  Thou  hast  thought  of  him  as 
thy  old,  quiet,  sober  friend  at  the  Abbaye,  thy 


132          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

confessor,  thy  adviser,  anything,  everything,  Cicely, 
but  thy  lover.  And  thou  hast  not  dreamt — how 
shouldest  thou  dream  even  ? — that  thy  fair  image, 
sweet,  is  enshrined  in  every  corner  of  my  quiet 
cell ;  that  thy  eyes  look  up  at  me  from  musty 
parchments,  and  thy  little  hands  seem  to  clasp 
mine  even  as  my  brushes  wander  over  the  pages  of 
my  missals.  Dear  child,  thou  hast  only  seen  the 
iron  cross  and  the  monk's  garments,  and  not  the 
living,  breathing,  loving— oh !  so  passionately 
loving — man  within  them.  Yet  I  cannot,  I  will 
not,  blame  thee,  Cicely ;  how  shouldest  thou 
guess  it  ?  Thou  wouldest  even  have  believed  thou 
wrongedst  me  to  think  of  it.  But  all  these  wild 
tumultuous  thoughts,  having  place  within  me, 
make  me  so  long  in  answering  her,  that  at  last 
she  lifted  up  her  sweet  face,  and  began  to  speak 
with  a  slight  frown  upon  her  brow.  What  is  it 
makes  her  stop  as  she  looks  at  me  ?  Why  did  that 
strange,  tender  glance  of  pity  cross  her  face? 
Does  she  now  know  my  secret?  Her  hand 
touches  me  again  ;  her  gentle  voice  speaks  sooth- 
ingly. 

•'  Dear  Friar  Hildebrand,  thou  mayest  not  say 


Cicely's  Secret.  133 

thou  art  not  ill,  for  thy  face  has  grown  white  and 
wan,  thy  eyes  are  sunken,  and  thy  hands — why,  do 
but  look  how  thin  they  are  !  Something  has  been 
the  matter ;  wilt  thou  not  tell  thy  little  favourite 
Cicely  all  about  it,  dear  Friar  ?  What  hast  thou 
done  to  thyself?" 

"  Cicely,  I  would  rather  speak  to  thee  of  thyself, 
dear  child,"  I  said,  trembling  again  at  her  kind 
words.  "  Somebody  loves  thee,  thou  sayest ;  of 
whom  dost  thou  speak,  fair  one  ?  " 

Cicely  laid  her  face  down  upon  my  hand,  and 
burst  into  tears. 

Now  what  a  wretch  am  I,  thought  I  within  my 
own  soul,  thus  to  spoil  the  joy  and  pride  of  her 
heart  in  telling  me  of  her  love ;  thus  to  cloud  her 
happiness  by  my  sorrow. 

"  Cicely,  Cicely,"  I  said,  and  I  spoke  cheerily,  to 
drive  away  her  tears,  "  look  up,  dear  child,  and  tell 
me  of  this  new  sweet  joy  in  thy  life  ;  I  will  listen. 
I  feel  better  now  ;  I  think  I  have  been  somewhat 
weak  and  ill  of  late,  and  thou  wilt  forgive  me  for 
my  strangeness,  Cicely  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  dear  Friar  Hildebrand,"  quoth  she,  "  dear 
Friar  Hildebrand  ! "  and  then  she  cried  again,  and 


134  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

I  never  knew,  and  never  shall  know,  I  suppose, 
how  much  of  my  heart  Cicely  guessed  that  morn- 
ing on  the  breezy  down,  in  the  golden  glory  of  the 
autumn-tide.  If  she  learnt  aught,  I  know  she  felt  a 
loving,  tender  pity  for  me,  and  it  soothed  my  soul. 
She  raised  her  head  soon  and  steadied  her  voice, 
and  laid  her  hand  in  mine,  and  told  me  all,  as  a 
child  might  tell  a  father,  only,  I  think,  a  little 
more  freely,  for  all  our  strong  emotion,  than  Cicely 
could  have  told  her  father.  She  knows  she  has 
ever  had  my  sympathy,  and  she  has  been  so  used 
to  open  her  heart  to  me  in  the  confessional,  that 
when  once  she  began,  the  whole  story  came  out 
quite  easily. 

"  He  has  loved  me,  dear  Friar  Hildebrand,  ever 
since  last  May-day,  when  I  was  the  queen,"  said 
she,  "  and  thou  wrotest  the  song,  and  made  my 
crown  for  me ;  and  he  says  that  he  shall  never 
love  but  me — and  it  is  very  sweet  to  be  loved,  dear 
Friar  Hildebrand,  dost  thou  not  think  it  must 
be?"  She  talked  on,  and  asked  this  question,  and 
then  bethought  herself  of  something  that  made 
her  turn  white  all  suddenly.  "  I  mean,"  she  said 
again,  in  sore  confusion,  "  yes,  thou  knowest  what 


Cicely's  Secret.  135 

I  mean,  dear  Friar  Hildebrand.  Thou  wilt  forgive 
me — I  do  make  such  stupid  blunders  now.  Mother 
says  she  cannot  trust  me  to  turn  a  junket  or  to 
beat  the  butter.  I  am  a  silly,  silly  child,  she  says, 
to  make  a  wife  of.  Thinkest  thou  so,  Friar  Hilde- 
brand?" 

"  Thou  wilt  do  very  well,  dear  Cicely ;  it  is 
natural  thou  shouldest  be  forgetful  somewhat ; 
they  say,  thou  knowest,  that  people  in  love  always 
make  mistakes,  so  why  wonder  at  thyself,  Cicely  ?" 

But  I  wondered  at  myself,  that  my  voice  was  so 
calm  when  I  spoke  to  her.  I  went  on  :  "  Thou 
hast  not  yet  told  me  who  it  is  that  loves  thee, 
Cicely/' 

"Oh,  there!"  she  said,  with  a  light,  merry  laugh; 
"  now  must  thou  think  me  as  stupid  as  my  mother 
does.  My  father  says  it  is  a  good  thing  that  it  is 
a  man  who  has  a  spare  penny  or  two,  else  should 
I  speedily  ruin  him.  It  is  Walter  Hawley,  the 
miller  at  the  Abbaye  Mills,  dear  Friar  Hilde- 
brand ;  surely  thou  knowest  him  well,  dost  thou 
not?"' 

Walter  Hawley !  The  vision  of  the  handsome 
young  miller  rose  before  me  ;  he  was,  doubtless, 


136          Friar  Hildebrand' s  Cross. 

a  fine,  honest,  good  fellow,  but .     Was  there 

ever  a  lover  who  rested  quite  satisfied  regarding 
the  fitness  of  the  man  his  mistress  married,  unless 
it  be  himself? 

"  And  thou  lovest  Walter,  Cicely  ? " 

She  turned  her  face  to  me  as  I  spoke;  there 
was  her  whole  soul  in  her  sweet  eyes,  and  they 
told  me  that  she  did,  without  the  added  words : 

"So  much,  dear  Friar  Hildebrand." 

u  God  bless  you  both,  Cicely."  I  said  it  heartily, 
but  a  weight  like  lead  came  down  into  my  soul  at 
that  moment,  and  shut  out  the  sunshine,  and  the 
lark's  song,  and  all  that  was  fair. 

"I  wanted  so  much  to  tell  thee,  dear  Friar 
Hildebrand,  and  I  wish  thou  wouldest  be  my  con- 
fessor again.  I  cannot  speak  so  freely  to  good 
old  Friar  Henry,  though  he  is  very  kind  to  me." 

"  Not  yet,  Cicely,  not  yet."  I  almost  groaned 
as  I  spoke. 

"Now,  I  am  sure  thou  art  ill  and  faint,  dear 
Friar  Hildebrand,"  she  said.  "  Stop  here  till  I 
bring  thee  something  from  the  farm  ;  I  pray  thee 
stop  here,"  she  added,  seeing  I  was  about  to  rise, 
"  I  will  presently  return  to  thee," 


Cicetys  Secret.  137 

With  that  she  sped  away  as  noiselessly  as  she 
had  come,  and  left  me  alone.  Thus  had  my 
doubts,  my  fears,  ended,  but  not  my  love.  No, 
Cicely,  thy  heart  is  safe,  sweet  one — safe  in 
another's  keeping,  and  thou  whisperest  softly  often 
in  the  day  those  pretty  words,  "  He  loves  me,"  and 
thinkest  of  the  gay  young  miller  and  the  merry 
mill-wheel  with  its  rainbow-hued  crystals ;  but 
thou  art  as  sure  of  the  love  of  the  quiet,  grave 
monk  amongst  his  missals  and  his  paints  as  of  his 
who  is  to  be  thy  husband.  I  can  only  think  of 
my  misery  to-day,  thought  I ;  in  the  days  that  are 
to  come,  when  I  have  battled  bravely  with  my 
grief,  I  will  think  of  thy  joy,  thy  happiness,  and 
be  glad  in  it 

Cicely  soon  came  back  to  me,  and  she  brought 
some  delicate  wheaten  cakes  of  her  own  making, 
together  with  a  bowl  of  junket,  sweet  and  cool 
and  fresh  as  the  bright  morning ;  and  when  I  had 
eaten  these  from  her  fair  hands  my  spirit  revived, 
for  I  had  indeed  been  long  fasting,  and  I  rose 
and  returned  with  her  from  the  down,  talking  to 
her  as  of  old,  while  she  answered  me  with  her 
usual  affection  and  reverence.  And  when  I  parted 


138          Friar  Hildebrand* s  Cross. 

from  her  at  the  gate  of  Tiddeybrook  and  returned 
to  her  the  wicker  basket  which  I  had  carried  for 
her,  I  pursued  my  way  along  the  road,  crossed 
over  the  bridge  beside  the  Abbaye,  and  so  down 
into  our  meadows,  not  as  yet  seeking  my  own  cell, 
but  walked  on  to  my  old  oak-tree,  and  sat  in  its 
branches,  and  faced  the  storm  that  had  come  upon 
me  since  matins,  and  tried  the  weight  of  the  cross 
that  had  been  given  me  to  bear. 


THE    PILGRIM    AND    THE    RELICS. 

IO 


CHAPTER  X. 

TUB  PILGRIM  AND    THE  RELICS. 

NOVEMBER  igth,  1522. — We  have  had  an  interest- 
ing visitor  at  our  Abbaye  during  a  whole  week, 
and  the  tales  he  has  had  to  tell  of  peril  and 
adventure  have  beguiled  many  an  otherwise  dull 
evening  of  its  dulness,  and  have  brought  quite  a 
goodly  assemblage  every  night  into  our  common 
hall,  where,  round  the  blazing,  cheerful  fire,  built 
with  good  stout  logs  of  wood,  we  have  listened 
intently  and  with  amazement  to  his  varied  narra- 
tive. 

The  palmer  whom  we  are  thus  privileged  to 
entertain,  and  to  be  entertained  by  in  return,  Friar 
Robert  by  name,  is  a  Frenchman,  and  discourses 
with  all  the  vivacity  native  to  his  countrymen 
of  that  which  has  happened  to  him.  He  has 
traversed  many  regions  I  fain  would  see.  His 
feet  have  trod  the  holy  soil  of  Palestine ;  he 


142  Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

has  beheld  the  Holy  Sepulchre ;  he  has  wandered 
in  the  olive  groves  of  the  Gethsemane  garden ; 
climbed  up  Olivet ;  paused  at  Bethany ;  stood  in 
the  sacred  grotto  of  Bethlehem  ;  strayed  through 
the  little  town  of  Nazareth ;  gazed,  too,  at  Sinai, 
and  contemplated  the  pyramids  and  the  Nile. 
The  Scriptures  are,  for  him,  not  merely  records  of 
facts,  but  illustrated  reading,  each  page  illumin- 
ated by  the  mental  pictures  of  what  he  has 
actually  gazed  upon. 

The  occasion  of  his  coming  here,  however,  was 
through  various  accidents  and  mishaps  that  befel 
him.  He  took  passage  from  Alexandria  for  his 
native  shores,  intending  to  land  in  due  course  at 
the  port  of  Marseilles  ;  but  he  suffered  shipwreck, 
and  was  exposed  for  some  days,  together  with 
three  or  four  of  his  fellow  voyagers,  in  an  open 
boat  and  in  a  stormy  sea.  From  this  they  were 
rescued  by  a  Cornish  trader  from  the  respectable 
borough  of  Fowey.  Glad  to  be  delivered  from 
their  hardships,  though  at  the  cost  of  much  further 
delay  and  travelling,  they  thankfully  accepted  the 
captain's  offer  to  bring  them  to  England. 

Friar  Robert  was  especially  anxious  to  arrive  in 


The  Pilgrim  and  the  Relics.         143 

the  fair  capital  of  his  own  country  in  safety,  since 
he  had  been  entrusted  with  two  precious  relics, 
choice  gifts  from  the  Lady  Abbess  of  the  Convent 
at  Jerusalem,  to  the  Archbishop  of  Paris  for  the 
church  of  Notre  Dame. 

These  relics  were  of  no  less  moment  than  a 
tooth  of  St.  Nicholas,  and  a  fragment  of  the 
garment  worn  by  the  Virgin  Mary  at  the  blessed 
Annunciation.  These,  enclosed  separately  in 
minute  crystal  shrines,  encased  with  gold,  Friar 
Robert  had  worn  concealed  beneath  his  robes, 
and  with  him  they  had  already  escaped  a  watery 
grave.  Perhaps,  our  hermit  Paolo  piously  ob- 
served, because  of  these  precious  relics  guarded 
by  the  friar,  his  own  life  was  continued,  that  he 
mfght  bear  them  in  safety  to  their  destination. 

But,  do  as  I  will,  I  can  hardly  bring  my  mind 
to  believe  that  the  bone  of  a  dead  man,  however 
holy,  and  the  fragment  of  the  robe  of  a  pious 
woman,  however  notable,  even  so  notable  and  holy 
as  the  blessed  Virgin  herself,  can  be  more  worthy 
the  protecting  care  of  the  Father  of  all  mankind 
than  the  life  of  one  of  His  children. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  Friar  Robert,  thus  rescued,  set 


144  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

sail  in  the  good  ship  Pride  of  Fowey,  and  had 
safely  crossed  the  too-often  treacherous  Bay  of 
Biscay,  had  then  skirted  the  western  coasts  of 
France,  when,  just  before  entering  the  Channel, 
whilst  yet  in  the  open  sea,  they  encountered  a 
terrible  storm,  the  like  of  which  even  he,  used  as 
he  was  to  watery  perils,  had  never  known.  The 
land  near  to  which  they  were  had  better  have 
been  sea  than  land,  for  all  the  protection  it  could 
afford  them  in  many  parts,  being  a  series  of 
islands,  some  large,  some  small,  abounding  in 
shoals  and  reefs  and  rocks  of  treacherous  kind. 
These  islands  traded  largely  in  very  ancient  times 
with  the  Phoenicians,  then  with  the  Greeks  and 
Romans,  for  tin,  which  they  produced  in  great 
abundance  and  of  fine  quality.  Divers  names 
have  been  given  to  this  group  of  islands  by  dif- 
ferent nations,  the  ancients  calling  them  Cassi- 
terides,  the  Greeks  continuing  this  appellation  as 
well  as  that  of  Hesperides,  the  Romans  bestowing 
on  them  the  name  of  Silures  and  Sigdeles,  now 
more  generally  named  Sylley,  or  Scilly.  The 
Danes  had  these  islands  for  awhile,  having  con- 
quered them  from  the  Ancient  Britons,  whose 


The  Pilgrim  and  the  Relics.         145 

priests,  the  Druids,  left  many  traces  behind  them 
of  their  presence  in  quaintly  devised  stones, 
cromlechs,  sacrificial  basins,  and  tombs  for  the 
mighty  dead. 

Our  good  King  Athelstan  of  blessed  memory, 
when  he  had  made  an  end  of  subduing  Cornubia, 
set  himself  to  the  task  of  subjugating  the  Danes 
on  these  islands,  and  succeeded  in  the  year  938. 
In  the  reign  of  Henry  I.  a  grant  was  made  to 
Osbert,  the  Abbot  of  our  own  dear  Abbaye  of 
Tavystoke  at  that  time,  of  "all  the  churches  of 
Scilly,  together  with  their  appurtenances,"  and  the 
ecclesiastical  succession  was  settled  on  his  suc- 
cessors under  the  Bishop  of  Exeter. 

There  are  two  fair  and  principal  islands  belong- 
ing to  this  group:  the  one  which  is  the  largest 
is  St.  Nicholas  or  Trescaw  ;  the  other,  St.  Mary's. 
Upon  St.  Nicholas  was  built  a  fair  abbey  in  the 
form  of  a  cross,  having  pointed  arches  of  Norman 
stone  finely  wrought.  This  Abbey  was  enriched 
after  the  Conquest  by  some  of  the  Earls  of  Corn- 
wall. Near  to  the  abbey,  which  is  dedicated  to 
St.  Nicholas,  and  which  is  sheltered  by  an  ever- 
green bank  of  very  beauteous  appearance  high 


146          friar  Hildcbrand's  Cross. 

enough' to  keep  out  the  sea,  stood  a  forest  of  elder 
trees,  as  the  name  Trescaw  implies,  with  a  breed 
therein  of  wild  boars,  all  which  was  given  by  King 
John  to  the  Abbey ;  but  on  this  forest  the  sea  has 
from  time  to  time  much  encroached. 

There  is  also  a  fine  fresh-water  pond,  half  a  mile 
in  length,  and  nearly  three  miles  wide,  the  water 
of  which  is  quite  clear. 

All  these  particulars  of  these  remote  islands  I 
have  long  known,  and  I  have  taken  an  interest  in 
them,  as  dependencies,  so  to  speak,  of  our  beloved 
abode,  and  now  my  interest  has  been  re-awakened, 
and  my  knowledge  increased,  by  the  visit  of  Friar 
Robert  coming  fresh  to  us  from  those  parts. 

But  to  continue  his  tale.  The  Pride  of  Fowey 
beat  about  amongst  these  rockbound  islands  like 
a  child's  toy-boat,  and  finally  was  thrown  hither 
and  thither  by  the  violence  of  the  waves.  Now 
ensued  a  terrible  scene  ;  men  were  drowning  with 
wild  cries  for  help  upon  their  lips,  and  agony 
painted  upon  their  white  fjfces.  Friar  Robert, 
believing  now  /that  death  by  shipwreck  must  be 
his  appointed  means  of  exit  from  life,  almost  re- 
solved to  throw  the  relics  with  all  his  might  upon 


The  Pilgrim  and  the  Rehcs.         147 

the  sharp  rock,  and  then  to  abandon  himself  to 
the  sea  ;  when,  suddenly,  help  came. 

A  number  of  the  brave  islanders,  joined  to  each 
other  by  means  of  ropes,  made  a  vigorous  attempt 
to  reach  and  rescue  them,  some  standing  upon  the 
shores  of  the  island  of  St.  Mary ;  others  scram- 
bling over  dangerous  ledges  of  rocks,  which,  here 
abrupt  and  bold,  there  low  in  the  water,  make 
together  such  pictures  of  rock  scenery,  as  for 
grandeur  and  majesty  of  outline,  even  so  great  a 
traveller  as  our  Friar  Robert,  believes  cannot  be 
surpassed. 

By  the  aid  of  these  kindly  and  hardy  men 
many  were  saved  who  must  otherwise  have 
perished,  and  Friar  Robert  was  amongst  them. 
They  were  presently  brought  to  the  Abbey  of 
St.  Nicholas  as  a  place  where  they  might  be  sure 
of  a  welcome ;  and  so  they  found  it,  for  the  good 
friars  furnished  an  abundant  meal,  at  once  to  the 
famished  sailors  and  the  saintly  but  hungry 
pilgrim,  of  stewed  rabbits  and  fried  fish,  of  both 
which  provisions  they  have  great  abundance,  also 
wheaten  and  barley  bread  and  new-laid  eggs — fare 
which  a  king  might  enjoy.  In  addition  to  these 


148          Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

good  things  indigenous  to  the  islands,  they  pos- 
sessed some  luxuries,  such  as  fruits  and  spices 
from  the  Levant,  brought  to  them  by  captains  of 
vessels,  who  exchanged  such  commodities  for  as 
much  fresh  bread  and  meat  and  vegetables  as  they 
could  supply.  The  natives  of  Scilly  are  soft  and 
agreeable  in  manners  ;  they  are  quiet,  prudent, 
sensible,  yet  social  people,  though  seldom  indulg- 
ing in  festivity,  excepting  on  stated  occasions. 

During  Friar  Robert's  visit,  a  wedding  took 
place  between  two  young  people  of  Trescaw, 
and  was  followed  by  curious  merry-makings:  the 
guests  danced  through  the  streets,  and  in  and  out 
of  the  houses,  such  being  their  custom. 

Though  the  weather  had  at  first  been  so  rough 
and  boisterous,  the  sea  became  greatly  subdued 
after  a  day  or  two,  and,  though  late  in  the  autumn, 
the  atmosphere  was  as  balmy  and  delightful  as  in 
far  more  southern  latitudes. 

Friar  Robert,  who  enjoys  fine  scenery  greatly, 
gladly  accepted  the  hearty  invitation  of  the  monks 
of  St  Nicholas's  Abbey  to  remain  with  them  for 
a  season,  till  some  ship  should  arrive  suitable 
to  carry  him  to  England.  But  a  strange  thing 


The  Pilgrim  and  the  Relics.         149 

happened  while  he  tarried  there.  The  first  mo- 
ment when  opportunity  was  given  to  him,  after 
being  saved  from  the  wreck  and  the  stormy  ocean, 
he  carefully  examined  the  precious  relics.  His 
joy  was  unbounded,  and  his  thankfulness  sincere 
and  devout,  at  finding  the  shrines  safe  within  the 
folds  of  his  robe.  What  then  were  his  terror  and 
consternation  a  few  days  later  to  find  both  of  them 
missing !  '  In  much  trepidation  and  surprise  he 
searched  everywhere  for  them,  unwilling  to  com- 
municate his  loss,  and  so  implicate  any  one  in  the 
supposed  robbery  of  his  treasure. 

A  ship  well  suited  for  him  to  proceed  on  his 
journey  now  put  into  the  harbour  at  St.  Mary's, 
and  there  was  but  little  excuse  for  him  to  remain 
longer  at  the  Abbey  on  Trescaw ;  but  how  to 
go  and  leave  such  treasures  behind  him  he  knew 
not.  Wherefore,  in  much  disturbance  of  mind, 
he  resolved  to  communicate  that  evening  the 
whole  circumstance  to  the  Abbot,  and  entreat  his 
advice  and  counsel.  That  wise  and  good  man 
was  walking  in  the  pleasant  gardens  of  the  Abbey, 
full  of  many  delightful  and  fragrant  plants,  which 
grow  in  abundance  in  these  islands,  whose  winter 


150          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

is  so  mild.  The  soft  beams  of  the  moon  shone  on 
his  venerable  countenance  and  long  white  beard 
as  Friar  Robert  approached  and  requested  an 
audience. 

"  What  is  it,  my  son  ? " 

Then,  with  much  anxiety,  the  stranger  re- 
counted his  loss.  He  spoke  of  the  relics  with 
which  he  had  been  entrusted,  the  extraordinary 
preservation  which  had  hitherto  attended  them, 
and  his  despair  at  losing  them, 

"And  what  were  they  like,  my  son?"  asked  the 
venerable  Abbot. 

Friar  Robert  minutely  described  them. 

"  Attend  me  in  the  refectory  at  the  end  of  two 
hours  ;  and  now  leave  me,"  said  the  Abbot. 

Much  surprised  at  this  command,  the  friar 
bowed  and  quitted  the  holy  man's  presence.  At 
the  appointed  time  he  appeared  at  the  common 
dining-hall,  where  the  Abbot  and  all  the  monks 
of  the  Abbey  were  assembled.  The  Abbot  sat 
in  his  chair  of  state  at  the  head  of  the  table ;  the 
monks  around  it,  as  if  a  meal  were  to  be  served. 

"  A  grave  scandal  hath  occurred  in  this  Abbey," 
said  the  Abbot,  casting  his  dark  and  piercing 


The  Pilgrim  and  the  Relics.         151 

eyes  around,  as  soon  as  room  had  been  made  for 
the  stranger  beside  the  empty  board.  "  A  monk 
of  this  Abbey,  thinking,  doubtless,  to  do  this 
religious  house  an  honour — for  I  will  not  impute 
worse  motives  to  him — hath  abstracted  certain 
relics  enclosed  in  crystal  shrines  from  the  person 
of  one  who  came  amongst  us,  a  brother  of  another 
honourable  fraternity,  saved  from  the  perils  of  the 
treacherous  rocks  that  surround  our  island  home. 
But  the  glory  of  God  and  the  fame  of  our  patron 
saint  can  never  be  advanced  by  acts  contrary  to 
the  commandments,  such  as  thievery  and  roguery, 
however  meritorious  the  desire  from  which  these 
actions  may  spring.  Wherefore,  let  him  who 
purloined  these  precious  relics,  thinking  to  do 
either  one  or  the  other,  freely  confess  his  guilt, 
and  restore  the  abstracted  treasures." 

The  monks  in  much  bewilderment  looked  one 
at  the  other,  the  innocent  in  anxious  doubt,  and 
the  guilty,  if  guilty  one  there  was,  in  perplexity 
and  fear.  There  was  a  long  and  embarrassing 
pause. 

Then  Friar  Robert  requested  permission  to 
speak,  and  having  obtained  it,  he  explained  what 


152          Frwr  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

the  relics  were,  how  he  came  by  them,  and  how 
he  had  been  commissioned  to  convey  them  in 
safety  to  their  future  resting-place,  and  the  distress 
he  naturally  felt  at  being  unable  to  fulfil  this 
purpose. 

There  was  no  response  either  to  the  Abbot's 
command  or  Friar  Robert's  appeal,  and  in  doubt 
and  perplexity  as  to  the  next  step  he  should  take 
in  the  matter,  he  retired  soon  after  to  rest  But 
no  sooner  had  he  sought  the  solitude  of  the  cell 
which  had  been  allotted  to  him  during  his  resi- 
dence at  Trescaw,  and  fallen  upon  his  knees  to 
repeat  his  prayers,  than  he  heard  a  voice  saying 
in  a  low  tone,  "  Arise,  and  look  about  thee ! " 
Which  he  immediately  proceeded  to  do,  and 
there  before  him  on  the  floor  of  his  cell,  glittering 
under  the  feeble  light  of  his  small  lamp,  and  the 
light  of  the  moon  outside,  were  the  crystal  shrines 
of  the  precious  relics,  as  if  they  had  miraculously 
appeared  above  the  ground. 

This  mystery  Friar  Robert  could  never  solve, 
whether  they  had  been  hidden  by  the  rushes  that 
bestrewed  the  floor  of  the  cell,  or  whether  a  friar 
of  St.  Nicholas's  Abbey  had  really  purloined  them, 


The  Pilgrim  and  the  Relics.         153 

and  when  appealed  to  by  his  Abbot  had  seen  it 
right  to  restore  them,  but  had  confided  the  deed 
and  the  manner  of  restoration  only  to  his  con- 
fessor, or  whether  the  loss  had  been  but  for  the 
trial  of  the  pilgrim's  faith,  and  the  recovery  a 
miracle.  But  whichever  it  was,  the  story  in- 
terested us  all  much,  and  was  even  the  occasion 
of  many  curious  and  intricate  discussions  between 
our  own  friars. 

I  have  carefully  examined  these  relics  of  the 
Friar  Robert,  and  have  found  myself  in  a  state  of 
mind  regarding  them  which  I  cannot  quite  ex- 
plain. Most  of  our  number  devoutly  reverence 
them — I  may  even  say,  adore  them, — and  this  I 
cannot  by  any  means  persuade  myself  to  do.  I 
find  my  doubtful  mind  questioning  whether  these 
be  truly  the  tooth  of  St.  Nicholas  and  a  fragment 
of  the  robe  of  the  Holy  Virgin  worn  by  her  on 
the  blessed  day  of  the  Annunciation.  Was  the 
garment  of  a  simple  village  maiden  of  Nazareth 
of  such  wondrous,  texture  as  to  resist  the  ravages 
and  marks  of  centuries  ?  If  not,  was  it  an  object 
worthy  the  performance  of  a  miracle  ?  Was  the 
tooth  of  St.  Nicholas  impervious  to  the  action  ot 


154          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

those  changes  which  affect  the  bones  of  other 
mortals  ?  Is  it  desirable,  even  were  these  veritable 
relics,  that  we  should  place  the  consideration  of 
them  above  our  appreciation  of  the  character  of 
the  saints?  Is  not  the  saint  himself  something 
better  than  his  bones  and  skull  ?  Is  not  the 
Holy  Virgin  more  than  her  robe  ?  Are  relics  a 
real  help  to  devotion  ?  I  am  surprised  when  I 
see  the  reverence  with  which  some  of  the  least 
thoughtful  friars  regard  these  relics.  Does  super- 
stition atone  for  the  want  of  holiness  ? 


YE  HISTORY  OF  LIVINGUS,  AB- 
BOT OF  TAVYSTOKE,  BISHOP 
OF  DEVON,  WHO  JOURNEYED 
INTO  ITALY  IN  YE  COM- 
PAN1E  OF  YE  KING  CANUTE 

YE  DANE. 

ii 


CHAPTER   XL 

YE  HISTORY  OF  LIVING  US,  ABBOT  OF  1AVYSTOKE, 
BISHOP  OF  DEVON,  WHO  JOURNEYED  INTO 
ITALY  IN  YE  COMPANIE  OF  YE  KING  CANUTE 
YE  DANE. 

MY  next  manuscript  scarcely  equalleth  the  former 
ones,  either  in  picturesqueness  of  description  or 
interest  of  subject,  yet  it  doth  well  illustrate  the 
greatness  of  our  Abbey,  and  the  distinctions 
attained  by  some  of  its  abbots,  and  is  therefore 
deserving  the  attention  of  our  order.  It  is  as 
follows : — 

Now  it  cometh  to  pass  after  much  fighting 
between  Danes  and  Angles,  ye  Dane  getteth  ye 
victorie.  So  that  when  ye  land  hath  been  now 
under  Sweyn,  now  restored  to  Ethelred,  now 
beneath  the  lawful  dominion  of  ye  Saxon  Edmund 
Ironsides,  and  again  subdued  by  ye  strong  arm 
of  ye  Danish  Canute,  it  doth  at  length  find  peace 


158  Friar  Hildebrand  's  Cross. 

in  ye  reign  of  this  last-mentioned  and  most 
mightie  monarch,  who  now  that  he  hath  time  to 
attend  to  ye  affairs  of  State  showeth  himself  a 
wise  and  godlie  man,  one  that  feareth  God,  and 
owneth  ye  almightinesse  of  His  power.  For 
among  ye  first  of  his  pious  works  is  ye  rebuilding 
and  re-establishing  of  ye  monasteries,  in  which 
his  countrie-tnen  had  done  no  small  hurt  and 
damage,  and  amongst  them  may  be  speciallie 
noted  our  said  Abbaye  of  Tavy stoke,  ye  which 
he  restoreth  to  more  than  its  ancient  grandeur, 
adding  thereunto  divers  fair  buildings,  and  en- 
dowing various  adjoining  parishes  with  churches 
and  oratories,  so  that  ye  Gospell  might  be 
preached  far  and  near,  and  overspread  throughout 
ye  whole  countrie  of  Damnonia.  Next  he  doth 
installe  goodlie  personages  into  ye  various  bene- 
fices, and  amongst  these  is  one  Livingus,  being 
ye  second  who  hath  attained  unto  this  dignitie, 
whom  he  straightway  places  over  ye  Abbaye  of 
Tavystoke,  which  shineth  forth  in  all  its  old 
beauty  amongst  its  embowering  trees,  and  beside 
its  murmuring  river.  And  it  may  well  be  that 
out  of  his  true  affection  for  Livingus  he  did  put 


Ye  History  of  Livingus.  159 

him  into  this  faire  place,  so  that  he  might  have 
no  small  enjoyment  in  ye  possession  of  this 
goodlie  heritage  ;  and  here  he  continueth  him 
for  no  short  time,  even  until  higher  honours 
await  him.  For  next,  ye  bishopric  of  ye  county 
is  bestowed  upon  him,  and  he  merelie  changeth 
his  abbotship  of  Tavystoke  to  take  up  his  abode 
in  ye  episcopal  mansion  at  Crediton,  where  was 
then  ye  cathedral  of  ye  diocese,  though  afterward, 
and  in  his  time,  removed  to  Exeter,  near  unto. 

Livingus  was  a  man  of  no  small  parts,  else 
surelie  he  had  not  had  such  honours  shown  unto 
him  by  so  worthie  a  monarch.  Nephew  was  he 
unto  Brithwald,  Bishop  of  St.  Germans,  in  Corn- 
wall, an  episcopal  chair  which  ye  natives  of  that 
region  had  held  above  120  years,  but  which,  as 
we  shall  see  presentlie,  they  were  not  destined 
to  hold  much  longer.  Livingus  doth  much  en- 
hance ye  fame  of  his  abbaye ;  he  encourageth 
learning  therein,  establisheth  schools  for  ye  proper 
teaching  of  ye  Saxon  tongue,  now  somewhat 
endangered  by  ye  inroads  of  ye  Danes,  and 
addeth  to  ye  libraries  of  ye  abbaye  by  setting 
his  monks  diligentlie  to  work  in  ye  transcription 


160          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

of  rare  and  valuable  manuscripts,  which  he  taketh 
paines  to  borrow  and  purchase  in  divers  directions 
for  their  use  and  benefit. 

So  passeth  many  happy  yeares,  wherein  he  is 
beloved  by  ye  monks  and  by  ye  poor  for  his 
good  deedes,  and  setteth  on  foot  many  wise  and 
notable  works,  ye  rather  living  with  than  above 
his  monks,  as  is  ye  manner  of  too  many  heads 
of  cloisters  in  our  day.  A  close  friendship  doth 
he  keep  all  this  time  with  ye  pious  Canute,  untill 
that  in  ye  yeare  1032  this  king  prepareth  himself 
for  a  pilgrimage  to  Rome,  there  to  behold  ye 
tombs  of  ye  blessed  saints  Peter  and  Paul,  to 
confess  his  sins  at  their  oratories,  and  to  be 
absolved  at  ye  hands  of  ye  holy  Pontiff.  So 
now,  being  determined  upon  this  pilgrimage,  a 
messenger  arriveth  in  hot  haste  at  our  Abbaye 
of  Tavystoke,  who  beareth  a  letter  from  ye  king 
to  his  dear  liege  friend  Livingus,  Abbot  of  Tavy- 
stoke, which,  when  this  good  man  readeth,  he 
lifteth  his  eyes  and  his  hands  likewise  in  astonish- 
ment, and  is  much  moved  and  concerned  for  ye 
many  things  of  which  it  treats.  For  first  of  all 
he  learneth  that  he  is  no  longer  only  an  abbot, 


Ye  History  of  Livingus.  161 

but  a  bishop,  and  that  of  this  his  native  county 
of  Devon ;  secondlie,  that  ye  king,  his  master, 
desireth  his  companie  unto  ye  city  of  Rome ; 
and,  thirdly,  that  he  must  not,  unto  ye  one  or 
ye  other,  say  him  '  nay.' 

So,  then,  being  very  much  amazed  and  over- 
whelmed at  these  intelligences,  Livingus  seeketh 
ye  hermit  of  ye  Tavy,  an  old  and  well-beloveH 
monk,  who  giveth  unto  him  much  goodlie  counsel, 
and,  above  all,  warneth  him  against  despising  ye 
injunctions  of  so  pious  a  monarch,  but  ye  rather 

to   accept   all  ye  honours  offered  to  him    freelie, 

i 

and  to  ye  good  of  his  immortal  soule.  For  that, 
though  he  had  been  heretofore  well  content  to 
abide  in  England  even  all  his  days,  and  would 
be  so  still,  had  not  a  fit  opportunitie  thus  arisen 
to  visit  holy  places,  yet  should  he  now  willinglie 
enter  upon  pilgrimage  to  ye  great  refreshing  and 
strengthening  of  all  pure  desires,  and  to  ye 
speedier  entrance  of  his  soule,  when  death  seizeth 
him,  into  ye  Paradise  of  God.  Then,  first  being 
duly  installed  in  his  bishopric,  Livingus  biddeth 
farewell  unto  his  monks,  enjoining  them  unto  ye 
practice  of  pure  and  virtuous  lives,  who  with 


1 62          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

many  sighs  and  tears,  witnesse  his  departure ; 
then  he  setteth  forth  straightwaye  for  ye  King's 
palace,  ye  which  being  come  unto,  he  is  welcomed 
with  much  heartinesse,  and  ye  King,  having 
arranged  ye  matters  of  his  kingdom,  setteth  out 
upon  his  pilgrimage.  All  ye  divers  incidents 
and  adventures  of  ye  way,  this  Livingus  hath 
so  vividly  set  forth  in  his  book  of  "  Canutus's 
Pilgrimage,  and  My  own  Doings,"  of  which  a 
fair  transcription  is  extant  in  ye  library  of  this 
said  Abbaye  of  Tavystoke,  that  I  need  not 
mention  them  here,  save  to  note  that  having 
with  some  perill  and  several  accidents  arrived  in 
Rome,  they  proceed  unto  ye  splendid  churches 
of  St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul  without  more  ado,  to 
lay  their  offerings  upon  ye  several  shrines,  and 
then,  having  somewhat  refreshed  themselves, 
repair  to  ye  Castle  of  St.  Angelo,  and  seek  ye 
presence  of  ye  august  Pontiff,  John  XIX.,  who 
receiveth  them  with  much  gladness  and  due 
honour,  ye  rather  that  he  hath  a  great  matter 
on  hand,  and  is  willing  to  have  one  more  sovereign 
in  his  train  to  add  unto  its  lustre.  This  is  no 
other  than  yc  crowning  of  Conrad  II.,  ye  Em- 


Ye  History  of  Livingus.  163 

peror  of  Germany,  at  which  ceremony  not  only 
our  Canute,  but  Rodolph  III.,  King  of  Burgundy, 
was  also  present.  For  here,  at  Rome,  did  these 
German  Emperors,  now  made  masters  of  Italy, 
receive  ye  golden  crown,  while  ye  silver  one  of 
Germany  was  placed  upon  their  heads  at  Aix- 
la-Chapelle  ;  and  ye  iron  one,  that  asserteth  their 
right  to  Lombardy,  at  Milan.  A  full  account  of 
which  crowning  findeth  place  in  ye  before  men- 
tioned manuscript,  whereof  Bishop  Livingus  is 
ye  author,  and  wherein  from  ye  power  of  his  pen, 
ye  reader  beholdeth  at  once  ye  jewels,  ye  mitres, 
and  ye  crosses,  and  ye  lustre  of  ye  golden  crown, 
all  which  flash  and  sparkle  before  ye  eye,  like 
unto  objects  that  are  truly  in  our  dazzled  sight ; 
but  which  my  poore  hand  tryeth  in  vaine  to 
describe.  No  lesse  doth  he  picture  with  wondrous 
distinctnesse  ye  mightie  monarch,  Conrad,  he 
who  founded  ye  cathedral  church  of  Spires,  and 
ye  Saxon  Rodolph,  who  proved  to  be  ye  last 
King  of  Burgundy,  for  after  his  death  this  same 
Conrad  swallowed  up  his  vast  inheritance,  but 
profited  little  by  it,  for  it  speedilie  became  dis- 
membered, profiting  by  ye  remotenesse  of  royal 


164  Friar  Hildebrand 's  Cross. 

authority,  and  ye  troubles  of  ye  empire.  But 
most  of  all,  our  Abbot  of  Tavystoke  and  Bishop 
of  Devon  pleaseth  himselfe  in  displaying  ye 
grandeur  of  his  own  king,  unto  whom  he  oweth 
so  much  of  duty  and  affection,  and  who  shone  con- 
spicuous, as  it  would  seem,  by  his  graceful  form, 
his  noble  mien,  and  his  dignified  carriage.  Whereat 
our  Livingus  waxeth  eloquent,  and  saith,  "  This  so 
great  and  puissant  monarch,  who  oweth  allegiance 
to  none,  save  unto  ye  King  of  Kings,  and  unto 
His  Holinesse  ye  Pope,  hath  yet  a  humble 
hearte  and  a  sweet  courtesie  ;  as  may  be  known 
by  all  who  did  witnesse,  as  I  did,  that  scene  upon 
ye  sands  at  Southampton  when  his  courtiers  did 
grossly  flatter  him,  and  tell  him  he  was  more 
than  human,  and  receive  from  him  pleasantlie  a 
most  just  and  wise  rebuke  ;  for  he,  sitting  down 
while  ye  tide  cometh  towards  him,  seemeth  to 
playfully  check  ye  approach  of  ye  waves.  *  And 
thus,  and  thus,'  saith  he,  '  do  ye  thus  dare  to  wet 
your  monarch's  feet  ?  Have  ye  not  heard  from 
these  gentles  that  I  am  lord  of  all  and  everything, 
and  that  ye  have  no  leave  to  come  where  I 
am,  unless  I  speciallie  permit  ? '  And  all  this 


Ye  History  of  Livingus.  165 

while  there  spreadeth  a  merrie  smile  over  his 
features. 

" '  Back  !  back  ! '  he  saith  to  each  advance  of 
ye  tide,  and  when  ye  waves  come  dashing  on, 
all  ye  more  angrily,  as  it  would  appeare,  he 
pusheth  his  chair  to  a  somewhat  safer  distance, 
and  waiteth  againe. 

" '  I  charge  thee,'  saith  he  unto  ye  sea,  '  that 
thou  presume  not  to  enter  my  land,  nor  to  wet 
these  robes  of  thy  lord  that  are  about  me.' 

"Whereupon  ye  courtiers  behind  him,  who  had 
been  so  lavish  in  their  grosse  flatterie,  bite  their 
lips  ;  others  amongst  them  frown,  and  shake  their 
heads,  and  others  mutter,  '  Is  ye  man  mad,  thus 
to  believe  us  ? '  ye  while  they  shrink  further  and 
further  back  into  ye  shore,  and  leave  their  royal 
master  in  ye  midst  of  ye  in-coming  tide.  It 
rolleth  up  grandlie  with  its  crest  of  foam,  all 
sparkling  in  ye  sunshine,  wetting  not  only  his 
royal  feet,  but  up  and  up  unto  ye  chair  he  resteth 
upon,  and  causeth  his  flowing  robes  to  droop 
with  ye  heavinesse  of  ye  salt  water  they  have 
soaked  up.  Then  he  slowlie  riseth,  and  taketh 
my  arm,  for  I  had  stood  near  unto  him  ye  while, 


1 66  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

even  when  ye  water  came  far  up  my  legs,  and 
then  he  turneth  with  a  sweet  dignitie  unto  ye 
sneering  yet  fawning  courtiers,  who  stood  won- 
deringlie  at  a  safe  distance,  that  their  own  dainty 
toes  might  escape  a  wetting. 

" '  Let  all  ye  world's  inhabitants  know,'  saith 
he,  'that  vaine  and  weak  is  ye  power  of  their 
kings,  and  that  none  is  worthy  of  ye  name  of 
king,  but  He  that  keeps  both  heaven  and  earth 
and  sea  at  His  command.' 

"  After  which,"  saith  our  bishop,  "  he  would 
never  suffer  ye  crown  to  be  placed  upon  his  head, 
but  adorneth  with  it  ye  likenesse  of  Christ  upon 
ye  cross  at  Winchester." 

LIVINGUS  AT  ROME. 

Our  Livingus,  whilst  he  fully  inspects  with  his 
royal  master  ye  wonders  of  ye  Seven-hilled  City, 
hath  another  matter  confided  to  him,  even  ye 
inditing  of  a  letter  from  King  Canute  unto  ye 
bishops  and  nobles  of  England,  ye  which  he  gives 
in  full  in  his  said  history  of  ye  pilgrimage,  out  of 
which  it  is  enough  here  to  say  that  it  enjoyneth 
these,  in  whose  hands  ye  governance  of  ye  king- 


Ye  History  of  Livingus.  167 

dom  was  left,  "  That  they  should  be  careful  to 
administer  justice,  and  never  seek  to  advance  ye 
king's  profit  by  any  undue  ways,  nor  to  ye  detri- 
ment of  any  person  whatsoever." 

A  just  and  noble  injunction,  worthy  of  ye  King 
who  framed  and  ye  prelate  who  transcribed  it. 

Being  come  back  safely  into  England,  our 
abbot-bishop  did  not  much  longer  enjoy  ye 
favour  and  friendship  of  this  good  king,  for  four 
years  after  being  returned  from  his  pilgrimage, 
Canute,  ye  Dane,  who  had  endeared  himself  even 
to  his  beforetime  enemies,  by  his  justice  and 
moderation,  departed  this  life.  Yet  not  before 
he  had  given  unto  Livingus  a  yet  greater  proof 
of  his  friendship  and  love,  by  joining  ye  Cornish 
bishopric  of  St.  German's  unto  that  of  Devon 
(Brithwald,  uncle  to  Livingus  being  now  dead), 
and  making  ye  seat  of  ye  episcopal  chair  to  be 
no  longer  at  Crediton,  but  at  Exeter,  in  ye  last- 
mentioned  county. 

Howbeit,  after  that  this,  his  royal  and  noble 
friend  and  patron,  was  dead,  he  still  continued  in 
favour  with  his  son  and  successor,  Harold,  who, 
though  a  weak  and  dissipated  prince,  bestowed 


1 68          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

ye  bishopric  of  Worcester  upon  his  father's  friend, 
all  which  preferments  Livingus  sustained,  keeping 
ye  governance  of  all  in  his  own  hands  as  long 
as  he  lived,  notwithstanding  ye  misunderstanding 
and  misadventures  which  thereafter  happened  to 
him  as  followeth.  Harold,  having  in  some  sense 
usurped  ye  throne  of  England  from  his  brother, 
Hardicanute,  to  whom  ye  wise  king,  their  father, 
had,  as  many  declare,  left  it,  while  others  as 
stoutly  assert  ye  contrary,  fceleth  himself  in  a 
degree  of  jeopardy  regarding  his  own  position, 
and  so  planneth  a  piece  of  deception  with  respect 
to  ye  Saxon  line,  which,  when  discovered,  rather 
weakeneth  than  strengtheneth  his  cause,  and  by 
aiding  him  in  which,  or  even  by  being  accused 
of  aiding  him,  Livingus  loseth  for  ye  space  of 
a  whole  year,  in  ye  reign  of  Hardicanute,  those 
privileges  and  emoluments  he  had  before  enjoyed. 
And  thus  it  happened.  Ethelred  ye  Unready 
(nearly  related  to  ye  founders  of  our  abbaye),  who 
had  been  deposed  by  ye  Danes,  being  dead,  left 
two  sons  by  his  wife  Emma  — ye  one  Edward 
and  ye  other  Alfred,  both  now  in  ye  safe  keeping 
of  ye  Duke  of  Normandy,  to  whose  court  their 


Ye  History  of  Liviugus.  169 

widowed  mother  had  sent  them.  Harold,  ye 
king,  causeth  a  letter  to  be  written  to  these 
youths,  informing  them  that  Canute  was  dead, 
and  persuading  them  to  come  over  to  England 
and  try  to  obtain  possession  of  ye  crown.  This 
letter  purporteth  to  come  from  their  mother,  and 
reacheth  first  Alfred,  ye  younger  son.  He  replieth 
that  he  will  come.  Being  arrived  with  a  small 
fleet  upon  ye  coast  of  Kent,  he  is  received  by  Earl 
Goodwin,  who  doth  traitorously  propose  to  bring 
ye  prince  and  his  followers  unto  ye  Queen  Emma, 
his  mother ;  but  being  in  ye  pay  of  ye  King 
Harold,  leadeth  them  instead  unto  ye  town  of 
Guileford,  ye  traitorous  nature  of  which  meeting, 
and  ye  cruel  deception  practised  here  upon  this 
poore  youth,  are  retained  in  this  name  Guile-ford, 
ever  since  attached  unto  this  place ;  whereat  all 
are  slain  save  every  tenth  man  by  ye  order  of 
Harold,  and  ye  young  Prince  Alfred  is  conveyed 
to  ye  Island  of  Ely,  where  his  eyes  are  barbar- 
ously put  out,  and  he  endeth  his  days  in  griefe 
and  torment,  a  helpless  prisoner.  Whereupon 
Alfricus,  Archbishop  of  York,  accuseth  Livingus, 
directly  Hardicanute  cometh  to  be  king  at 


170          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

Harold's  death,  for  joyning  in  ye  conspiracy 
with  Earl  Goodwin  against  ye  prince's  life.  And 
surelie  if  ye  matter  had  been  proved  against  him, 
I  could  have  taken  no  pleasure  in  stating  his 
power  over  our  faire  abbaye,  but  inasmuch  as 
this  Alfricus  was  himself  thrust  out  of  his  chair 
for  a  season  for  interference  in  secular  matters, 
and  therefore,  he  might  well  have  a  grudge  against 
another  bishop,  and  seek  to  hide  his  own  faults 
under  those  of  his  neighbour ;  and  because  that 
Livingus  was  reinstated  after  explaining  ye  whole 
matter,  unto  all  his  former  offices  and  powers,  I 
am  ye  more  inclined  to  believe  that  if  he  took 
part  at  all,  in  this  iniquitous  businesse,  he  did  so 
without  joyning  in  ye  crueltie  and  hardnesse  of 
heart  that  could  impose  such  un-Christlike  torture 
on  a  young  and  innocent  human  being.  And 
now  there  draweth  nigh  unto  this  great  Prelate, 
as  to  all  other  mortals,  ye  time  when  he  must 
give  up  his  honours  and  his  breath ;  and,  for  that 
ancient  affection  of  his  unto  his  faire  Abbaye, 
he  chooseth  its  shelter  for  his  weary  frame,  and 
willeth  that  his  bones  shall  find  sepulture  in  ye 
Abbaye  Church,  ye  which  tomb  I  have  myseif 


Ye  History  of  Livingus.  171 

often  seen,  and  meditated  thereupon.  But  he 
was  not  to  pass  out  of  this  world  quietlie,  for  on 
that  very  day,  and  at  that  very  hour  wherein  his 
soule  departed,  there  was  such  a  horrible  crash  of 
thunder  heard  throughout  all  England  that  'twas 
thought  ye  ruin  and  end  of  ye  world  was  come. 
And  truly  alreadye  was  ye  man  born  who  was 
to  make  ye  end  of  our  Saxon  and  Danish  lines 
of  Kings  in  England,  and  revolutionise  ye  whole 
nation  under  his  powerful  sway. 

But  Livingus  lifteth  his  eyes  unto  heaven,  and 
ye  cross  unto  his  lips,  and  so  maketh  a  peaceful 
exit,  notwithstanding  that  he  left  a  noisy  world 
and  a  stormy  sky  behind  him. 

Here  endeth  ye  history  of  Livingus  II.,  Abbot 
of  Tavystoke,  Bishop  of  Devon  and  Bishop  of 
Worcester. 

12 


THE   FRIAR   AND   THE   CHILDREN 
AT  SCHOOL. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

7 HE  FRIAR  AND  THE  CHILDREN  AT  SCHOOL. 

NOVEMBER  30th,  1522. — I  have  finished  my  illu- 
minations for  the  history  of  Livingus,  second 
abbot  of  our  Abbaye  ;  I  have  sketched  our  Saxon 
School,  with  its  pupils,  as  the  subject  of  one 
picture ;  I  have  depicted  the  coronation  of  the 
Emperor  Conrad  by  the  Pope,  King  Canute  and 
our  Livingus  being  present,  and  I  have  drawn 
the  fleet  of  vessels  that  brought  the  poor  young 
Prince  Alfred  from  Normandy,  and  disembarked 
him  and  his  followers  upon  the  coast  of  Kent, 
just  safely  escaping  those  treacherous  Goodwin 
Sands,  that  are  not  more  fatal  to  the  mariners 
that  run  unsuspectingly  upon  them,  than  was  the 
cruel  earl  whose  name  they  bear  to  the  fair  Saxon 
Prince  who  met  him  there.  But  I  am  grievously 
disappointed  with  regard  to  that  other  manuscript 

175 


176          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

to  which  this  history  refers,  descriptive  of  the 
journey  to  Rome  of  the  King  Canute  and  Bishop 
Livingus,  and  written  by  the  latter. 

No  sooner  did  I  read  of  it  in  the  brown  pages  of 
the  parchment,  and  learn  that  the  monk  who  trans- 
cribed this  record  had  read  it  in  the  library  of  our 
Abbaye,  and  therefore  did  not  see  fit  to  enter 
more  fully  into  the  story  of  the  pilgrimage,  than  I 
turned,  descended  from  my  cell,  and  hurried  across 
the  green  to  the  library,  and,  entering  it,  plunged 
at  once  into  the  search  with  eager  avidity.  This 
I  was  enabled  to  do  all  the  more  readily  and 
easily,  because  I  am  custodian  of  the  place,  both 
of  the  rolls  and  missals  and  parchments  as  well 
as  the  new  books  printed  at  our  printing  press, 
which  was  set  up  in  our  Abbaye  the  very  year 
in  which  I  came  to  Tavystoke.  It  already  does 
us  good  service,  and  in  its  working  I  take  the 
most  lively  interest ;  nor  do  I  fail  to  rejoice  that 
we  have  the  honour  and  glory  at  this  little  town 
of  having  one  of  the  very  first  printing  presses 
in  all  England.  Our  Saxon  grammar  has  been 
brought  to  perfection  by  it,  and  I  hail  this  new 
means  of  diffusing  knowledge  throughout  the 


The  Friar  and  the  Children  at  School.   177 

world,  although  I  already  foresee  that  my  work 
amongst  missals  and  manuscripts  must  ere  long 
give  place  to  this  better  mode  of  preserving  and 
multiplying  the  records  of  the  great  thoughts  and 
worthy  deeds  of  more  ancient  times,  as  well  as  of 
our  own  contemporaries.  But  if  any  coming 
after  me  shall  linger  over  my  old  papers  and 
written  books,  may  they  think  kindly  of  him  who, 
before  the  great  and  grand  art  of  printing  was 
discovered,  had  learnt  the  art  of  illuminating  and 
transcribing,  in  order  that  he  might  thereby  serve 
God,  and  make  the  history  and  sweet  counsels 
of  the  Divine  Son  of  God,  as  well  as  those  of 
His  apostles  and  disciples,  and  the  works  of 
other  great  men  in  the  world,  just  a  little  more 
within  the  reach  of  the  loving  and  thoughtful 
hearts  of  men  by  the  greater  abundance  of 
good  and  pure  books. 

I  have  rambled  from  my  subject  of  the 
missing  manuscript.  I  would  give  much  to  find 
**  Canute's  Pilgrimage  and  My  Own  Doings  "  ;  but 
I  have  sought  it  many  hours  in  vain.  Alas !  some 
careless,  unreading  eye  has  passed  it  over  as 
worthless  ;  some  hand  has,  perhaps,  thrown  it  away. 


178  Friar  Hil deb  rand's  Cross. 

\  had  recourse  at  length  to  our  present  ruler, 
Richard  Ban  ham,  who  has,  I  grieve  to  say, 
more  regard  to  his  dignities  than  his  duties,  or, 
at  least,  busies  himself  further  in  the  one  than 
the  other.  For  being  already  a  mitred  abbot, 
and  admitted  as  a  baron  of  the  higher  House 
of  Parliament,  he  seeks  to  free  himself  from  all 
authority  save  that  of  His  Holiness,  Pope  Leo, 
and  in  this  he  has  just  succeeded  on  this  con- 
dition, that  he  pays  to  the  Apostolic  Chamber, 
on  the  feasts  of  St.  Peter  and  St  Paul,  half  an 
ounce  of  gold,  i.e.,  twenty  shillings  of  our  lawful 
money.  But  in  this  matter  of  the  manuscript 
I  applied  to  him,  and  received  from  him  a 
courteous  hearing,  but  no  information  touching 
the  lost  document ;  yet  he  gave  an  old  record 
to  me  possessed  by  the  Abbots  of  this  Abbaye 
above  one  hundred  years,  wherein  is  entered 
the  titles  of  all  manuscripts  at  that  time  in  our 
library.  Over  this,  too,  I  looked  in  vain  for  the 
treatise  of  the  Bishop  Livingus  ;  but  having 
this  list,  I  am  determined  to  seek  every  one  of 
the  books  it  mentions,  and  to  make  a  new  list 
of  the  books  at  present  in  the  library  up  to 


The  Friar  and  the  Children  at  School.   179 

that  year  in  which  I  may  be  able  to  finish  it, 
for  the  better  guidance  in  this  particular  of  those 
who  may  come  after  me ;  and  of  this,  for  its 
further  preservation,  I  will  either  print  myself 
or  cause  to  be  printed,  several  copies. 

I  have  undertaken  since  I  last  wrote  in  this 
diary,  to  teach  a  class  daily  of  the  boys  in  our 
schools.  Continuous  thought  in  my  solitary 
cell  was  more  than  I  could  bear ;  work,  useful 
employment,  daily  toil — while  it  is  the  punish- 
ment of  man's  transgression  by  Adam  in 
Paradise — is  also  the  means  mercifully  ap- 
pointed for  us  to  check  our  too  constant  out- 
bursts of  sorrow,  our  too  morbid  dwelling  upon 
difficulties.  For  some  it  is,  on  the  contrary, 
the  means  to  counterbalance  the  too  sweet, 
too  enervating  delights  of  love  and  home  ;  this 
will  it  be  by-and-by  for  Walter  Hawley  and 
Cicely ;  while  for  myself,  I  am  glad  to  drown 
my  repeated  questionings  and  repinings  and 
regrets  amongst  the  busy  life  of  the  school,  and 
the  merry,  innocent  faces  of  the  boys.  They 
grow  fond  of  me,  these  young,  fresh  hearts,  and 
I,  who  have  always  had  a  love  for  children 


i8o          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

such  as  without  which  I  conceive  no  manhood 
can  be  true  and  noble,  or  worthy  of  that  Friend 
of  little  children,  our  dear  Master,  Christ ;  have 
come  to  look  eagerly  for  their  smiles,  to  prize 
their  brightening  faces  as  I  draw  near,  and  to 
delight  in  their  warm  greetings.  "  Friar  Hilde- 
brand,"  quoth  one  youngster  yesterday  to  me 
in  confidence,  "  thou  art  kinder  to  me  than 
father  is ;  I  mean  to  love  thee  better  than  I 
do  him."  "  Saucy  child,  I  have  not  so  much 
reason  to  be  cross  to  thee  perchance,"  I  an- 
swered him,  stroking  his  almost  white  flaxen 
hair ;  "  thou  dost  not  give  thy  father  such 
ready  obedience  as  thou  dost  me,  I  suspect , 
serve  him  tenderly,  respectfully,  my  son,  and 
thou  wilt  soon  win  his  love  also." 

These  youngsters  get  to  know  and  frequent 
my  old  haunts  in  meadow  and  moorland,  and 
gather  round  me  to  learn  the  stories  I  can  tell 
them  of  the  birds  and  flowers  and  beetles  and 
fishes.  It  is  but  little  I  know  myself  of  the 
marvellous  instincts  God  has  implanted  even 
in  His  smallest  and  humblest  creatures,  but 
yet,  methinks,  our  talk  has  already  had  effect 


The  Friar  and  the  Children  at  School.    181 

upon  these  dear  but  hitherto  so  thoughtless 
boys,  in  teaching  them  a  tenderer  love  for 
nature,  and  a  kindlier  feeling  for  the  dumb 
animals,  and  the  sweet  little  songsters  of  the 
grove.  I  think  there  will  be  fewer  nests  robbed, 
now  that  they  know  somewhat  of  the  pains- 
taking industry  of  lark  and  linnet,  blackbird  and 
thrush. 

During  these  autumn  evenings,  when  I  sat 
upon  the  banks  and  downs,  or  walked  beside 
the  river,  surrounded  by  my  children,  we  often 
saw  Walter  Hawley  and  Cicely,  enjoying  like 
ourselves  the  soft  beauty  of  the  scene ;  and  still 
more,  I  strongly  suspect,  the  sweet  tales  of  love, 
the  happy  glances,  the  bashful  smiles,  the 
drooping  eyes,  the  rapturous  kisses  that  passed 
between  them.  Thou  art  happy,  dear  Cicely ; 
in  that  thought  there  is  a  balm  for  my  soul.  I 
shall  after  awhile,  God  helping  me,  soar  above 
the  love-sick  fancies,  the  passionate  yearnings 
towards  thee,  that  trouble  me  ;  or,  still  better, 
I  shall  be  able  calmly  to  blend  this,  my  true 
love  for  thee,  with  all  the  duties  of  my  life, 
and  be  a  wiser,  a  kinder,  a  gentler  man  for 


182  Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

having  known  and  loved  thee,  and  for  all  my 
sore  experience.  The  heart  loses  nothing  by 
loving,  even  if  the  love  is,  as  we  are  wont  to 
call  it,  unfortunate,  because  not  wholly  returned 
to  us  in  kind.  As  I  conceive,  our  characters 
are  purified  and  perfected  by  it,  so  long  as  our 
passion  never  eclipses  our  duty,  so  long  as  we 
seek  less  our  own  selfish  delight,  than  the  last- 
ing happiness  of  our  beloved  one. 

"  God  is-  love."  This  truth,  which  is  the  key- 
note of  God's  dealings  with  us,  and  which  the 
divine  St.  John  taught  to  both  old  and  young, 
as  he  went  about  in  his  last  days,  aged  and 
infirm,  but  with  a  glorious  tender  beauty  on 
his  face — fills  my  whole  soul  at  this  moment 
Yes,  dearest  Lord,  Thou  Man  of  sorrows,  Thou 
art  in  this  particular  the  very  impersonation 
of  Thy  Father's  nature.  Oh !  as  often  as  I 
>ehold  Thee  upon  the  cross,  or  listen  to  Thy 
gentle,  compassionate  words  to  Thy  sleeping 
disciples  in  the  garden,  or  feel  Thy  whispers 
in  my  own  heart,  I  re-learn  the  mighty  truth, 
"  God  is  love."  All  our  poor  attempts  at  loving 
each  other  and  Thee  are  such  miserable  failures 


The  Friar  and  the  Children  at  School,    183 

when  compared  with  Thy  free,  full  outpouring 
of  tenderness :  and  yet  they  bring  us  somewhat 
nearer  unto  Thee.  The  child  that  does  its  little 
task  to  win  the  love-look  in  its  mother's  face  ; 
the  man  that  denies  himself  to  give  some  pleasure 
to  his  beloved  one  ;  the  mother  who  risks  her 
life  for  her  sick  infant ;  the  wife  who  stands 
the  closer  at  her  husband's  side,  because  all  the 
world  is  pouring  scorn  upon  his  head — all  these 
are  liker  unto  God  for  the  pure  affection  they 
feel ;  and  somewhat  reflect — as  the  pale  moon 
reflects  the  golden  sun — the  lustre  of  God's 
brightness.  Yes,  all  the  troubles  of  these 
earthly  loves  of  ours  will  be  over  one  day,  but 
the  love  itself,  sanctified  from  the  passion  that 
mars  its  heavenliness  here,  will  remain.  And 
as  my  thought  thus  framed  itself,  my  heart 
breathed  softly  the  refrain  of  many  of  our 
anthems  :  Hallelujah,  Amen. 


AROUND    THE    YULE    LOG. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

AROUND  THE  YULE  LOG. 

CHRISTMAS  has  come  again.  Truly  time  lingers 
not  for  man's  joys  or  sorrows.  Everywhere  the 
yule  log  burns,  and  there  is  an  echo  of  the  joy 
of  the  angels  1,500  years  ago  ;  but  for  all  that, 
and  though  I  too  can  rejoice  for  the  glad 
evangel,  my  heart  is  weary  and  sad  to-day,  and 
this  blessed  source  of  joy  runs  along  it,  only  as 
a  little  rill  of  comfort,  where  there  seems  to 
flow  a  very  river  of  death.  Great  God  !  Thou 
dost  baptize  us  into  Thyself  by  our  griefs,  and 
comfort  us  by  Thy  rod ;  but  we  rebel — alas ! 
how  our  poor  weak  souls  rebel — against  the 
process.  I  am  weary  of  my  lonely  life  ;  weary 
of  all  things.  Our  Abbot  has  just  received  from 
the  royal  hand,  for  the  use  and  profit  of  our 
abbaye,  and  the  instruction  of  its  monks,  a  copy 
13  *87 


1 88  Friar  Hildebr ami's  Cross. 

of  that  admirable  treatise  of  the  King  against 
the  heresy  of  the  German  apostate,  Martin 
Luther :  a  book  that  has  gained  for  him,  from 
Pope  Leo,  the  worthy  title  of  Defender  of  the 
Faith.  Into  all  this  matter,  if  but  to  distract 
my  soul  from  its  bitterness,  I  am  inclined  to 
make  a  plunge  ere  long,  for  I  know  little  at 
present  of  these  strange  German  doctrines,  and 
I  fain  would  understand  the  nature  of  the  power 
that  has  so  mightily  influenced  the  minds  of  men 
against  the  Church  of  their  fathers.  Also  it 
becomes  us  all  to  appreciate  the  argument  of 
our  King's  pious  work,  and  in  order  the  better 
to  understand  that  whereof  he  treats,  we  must 
also  comprehend  the  heresy  which  he  opposes. 


New  Year's  Day,  1523. — No  sooner  had  I 
written  the  above  paragraph  in  this  my  diary 
on  Christmas  Day,  after  I  had  returned  from 
performing  my  part  in  the  celebration  of  High 
Mass  in  our  abbaye  church,  than  I  was  summoned 
to  receive  a  messenger  from  Cicely,  who  begged 
I  would  come  to  Tiddeybrook  to  spend  my  Christ- 
mas as  I  had  been  wont  to  do  these  years  past, 


the  Yule  Log.  189 

ever  since  I  had  returned  to  Devonshire,  after 
my  long  sojourn  in  Italy.  Her  message  was 
brought  by  her  little  nephew  Hal,  who  has  but 
lately  become  my  scholar,  and  who  added  his 
own  entreaties  to  hers  with  much  eagerness.  I 
was  well  pleased  that  in  all  her  mirthful  happiness 
and  new  joy,  the  dear  child  did  not  forget  her  old 
friend,  and  bidding  Hal  wait  for  me,  I  returned  to 
my  cell,  closed  and  locked  away  this  diary  with 
no  small  alacrity,  while  a  gleam  of  heart  sunshine 
spread  over  that  dreary  waste  of  water  to  which 
I  had  so  despondingly  likened  my  heart  just 
before.  With  the  dear  boy's  hand  in  mine,  I 
ascended  the  hill  to  Tiddeybrook,  not  forgetting 
to  note  to  him  the  varied  beauties  of  Nature  that 
even  in  the  drear  winter  season  mark  the  hand 
of  the  Almighty  Artist.  There  were  the  coral 
berries  on  the  holly  bushes,  that  thickly  studded 
the  Abbaye  Green,  and  lined  the  hedgerows  ; 
there  were  the  golden  blossoms — somewhat  sparse 
now,  it  must  be  confessed — of  the  furze,  that 
sweet,  »yet  hardy  flower,  that  gladdens  the  eyes 
and  perfumes  the  air  at  all  seasons,  though  most 
of  all  when  the  fragrant  may  is  in  full  bloom,  to 


190          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

mingle  its  silver  with  the  gold,  and  later  when 
the  heath-flowers  blend  their  royal  purple  with 
its  regal  hue.  Many  robins  flitted  across  our 
path  with  a  chirp  of  welcome  as  we  proceeded, 
and  having  a  piece  of  bread  in  my  pocket,  I 
crumbled  it  up  and  let  Hal  throw  the  food  to 
the  dear  birds  as  we  passed.  The  white  snow 
was  on  the  ground,  and  a  hard  frost  had  made 
it  fine  walking ;  but  it  was  very  cold  ibr  the 
robins,  spite  of  their  warm  feathers  and  their 
ruddy  breasts,  which,  together  with  the  holly 
berries,  were  in  such  marked  and  beautiful  con- 
trast with  the  pure  white  snow.  Being  arrived 
at  Tiddeybrook,  we  found  the  great  hall  very 
full  of  guests ;  but  no  sooner  did  Cicely  espy 
me,  than  she  advanced  to  meet  me,  with  a  sweet 
smile  upon  her  lips,  and  outstretched  hands. 

"Dear  Friar  Hildebrand,  I  am  right  glad  thou 
art  come ;  I  do  thank  thee  so  much  for  coming  ; 
I  began  to  fear  thou  wouldest  never  come  to  us 
again  at  all " ;  her  voice  dropped,  and  the  smile 
faded  as  she  spoke  these  last  words. 

"Thou  art  mistaken  then,  my  dear  child,"  I 
answered,  as  gaily  as  I  could,  for  I  felt  my  face 


Around  the  Yule  Log.  191 

flush,  and  my  hands  tremble  as  I  took  hers ; 
"here  I  am  once  more  amongst  you,  and  wish 
you  all  a  merry  Christmas." 

I  was  surrounded  now  by  old  and  young,  and 
kindly  words  were  exchanged  ;  and  very  soon  I 
so  entered  into  their  spirit  of  mirth  and  frolic 
that  I  forgot  altogether  to  be  sad.  And  indeed 
it  would  be  impossible  almost  for  him  who 
witnessed  these  quaint  Christmas  diversions  of 
ours  in  merry  England  to  preserve  a  very  grave 
face,  even  though  he  may  have  a  somewhat  dull 
heart  underneath.  First  of  all  I  may  mention 
the  beautiful  adornments  of  the  hall,  which  I 
never  saw  look  prettier,  for  neither  the  holly  nor 
mistletoe  had  been  spared,  and  with  these  were 
mingled  laurel  leaves,  and  graceful  festoons  of 
ivy,  which  greatly  enlivened  the  place.  Upon 
the  hearth  there  burned  the  great  yule  log, 
which  had  been  brought  into  the  house  on  the 
Christmas  Eve,  as  Hal  informed  me,  with  no 
small  mirth  and  fun,  and  now  the  children  were 
busy  handing  round  amongst  each  other  the 
yule  dough,  and  they  brought  their  cakes  in  abun- 
dance to  me,  that  I  might  pass  my  judgment 


192  Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

upon  them ;  Cicely  had  fashioned  these  little 
images  of  the  Virgin  and  her  Divine  Son,  the 
Infant  Christ,  in  sweetened  paste — as  the  bakers 
do  in  the  large  towns  of  this  kingdom  to  present 
to  their  customers — and  given  one  to  every  child 
guest  at  the  farm,  a  source  of  great  delight  to 
them. 

And  almost  the  first  business  after  I  arrived 
was  the  Christmas  dinner,  a  sumptuous  repast 
indeed,  for  first  of  all  there  was  brought  in  the 
boar's  head,  placed  upon  a  capacious  dish,  and 
ornamented  with  sprigs  of  bay  and  rosemary, 
preceded  by  drummers,  trumpeters,  and  fifers, 
with  much  noise,  whereat  we  all  stood  up,  while 
Walter  Havvley  chanted  the  verses  in  its  praise, 
and  we  all  joined  in  the  chorus,  with,  I  am  afraid, 
more  noise  than  melody,  for  already  the  tankards 
of  nut-brown  ale  began  to  be  freely  emptied,  a 
circumstance  which  never  tends  to  sweeten  men's 
voices.  This  was  our  song,  a  somewhat  preten- 
tious one,  and  more  abounding  in  Latin  phrases 
than  the  serving-men  and  farm  labourers  could 
rightly  interpret : — 


Around  the  Yule  Log.  193 

"  The  bore's  head  in  hande  bring  I, 

With  garlands  gay  and  rosemary  ; 
I  pray  you  all  synge  merrily, 
Qui  estis  in  convivio, 

The  bore's  head,  I  understande, 

Is  the  chiefe  in  the  lande. 
Looke  wherever  it  be  fande, 

Set  -vile  cum  cantico. 

Be  gladde,  Lords,  both  mon  and  lasse, 
For  this  hath  ordayned  our  stewarde 

To  chere  you  all  this  Christmasse, 
The  bore's  head  with  mustarde.'  * 

After  this  song,  when  we  were  all  seated,  ample 
justice  was  done  to  the  boar's  head,  and  to  the 
capons,  kids,  beef,  geese,  hare,  and  ham,  as  well 
as  the  venison  pasties,  mince-pies,  junkets,  cus- 
tards, cream,  and  apple  jellies,  for  which  Cicely 
and  her  mother  are  more  especially  famed.  Nor 
did  her  father  spare  his  ale  and  cyder,  so  that 
there  was  somewhat  more  of  drunken  revelry 
than  I  could  well  tolerate  ;  and  after  the  repast 
the  wassail-bowl  was  prepared  with  just  as  much 
ado  as  the  boar's  head  had  been  brought  in,  and 
being  decorated  with  ribands,  was  handed  round 

*  "  Christmas  Carolles."     Published  by  Wynkyn  de  Worde,  1521. 


194  Friar  Hildebrand*s  Cross 

the  company  by  two  of  the  prettiest  maidens 
present,  who  sang  the  while  verses  in  its  honour, 
made  sweet  by  their  pleasant  voices ;  and  so 
paused  before  each  guest  and  offered  it  to  him 
to  drink.  I  partook  of  it  very  sparingly  indeed, 
merely  raising  the  bowl  to  my  lips  for  a  sip,  as 
an  example  to  my  flock,  and  because  that  there 
are  many  customs  which,  as  I  conceive,  are 
better  omitted  at  like  festivals — drinking  much 
of  such  liquors  being  one.  For  it  appears  to 
me  altogether  unseemly  that  on  the  day  where- 
in we  ought  to  rejoice,  for  that  higher  and  more 
exalted  life  of  which  Christ  came  to  give  us  the 
ensample,  we  should,  instead  of  imitating  Him, 
lower  ourselves  by  drunkenness  to  the  condition 
of  the  very  beasts  that  perish. 

After  a  while  the  room  was  cleared  of  much 
of  the  good  cheer,  there  being  left  upon  the 
table  a  great  abundance  of  nuts,  apples,  and 
various  drinks,  together  with  some  small  cakes, 
and  presently  the  table  itself  was  drawn  close 
back  against  the  wall,  and  the  elders  gathered 
around  the  fire,  whereon  the  yule  log  crackled 
and  glowed  in  genial  sympathy  with  the  holyday 


Around  the  Yule  Log.  195 

mirth  of  the  company.  And  then,  the  space 
being  made  sufficiently  large,  the  masquerading 
began,  and  now  Cicely  came  to  me,  and  whis- 
pered, "  Friar  Hildebrand,  we  want  thy  good 
counsel  in  our  various  matters ;  and  canst  thou 
act  a  part  ? " 

"Ah,  truly,"  thought  I,  "my  sweet  Cicely,  I 
am  constrained  to  act  a  part  every  day  of  my 
life." 

So  I  went  with  her  into  an  adjoining  room, 
where  the  young  folk  were  gathered,  and  where 
there  were  much  noise  and  laughter.  And  this 
was  the  manner  of  our  mummery.  First  of  all, 
we  appointed  a  suitable  Lord  of  Misrule,  that 
he  might  take  chief  pains  and  concern  in  the 
manner  of  our  diversion,  and  next  we  decided 
to  enact  the  legend  of  St.  George  and  the 
Dragon,  Cicely  taking  with  much  grace  the  part 
of  the  fair  Sabcea,  the  daughter  of  the  King  of 
Egypt,  captured  by  the  ferocious  dragon,  and 
rescued  by  St.  George,  who  was  no  other  than 
Walter  Hawley,  grotesquely  armed  with  helmet, 
lance,  and  other  warlike  appurtenances.  The 
children  amused  themselves  by  entering  into 


196          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

divers  devices  made  of  buckram,  in  the  shapes 
of  different  animals,  and  ran  hither  and  thither, 
bellowing,  barking,  and  neighing,  so  as  to  make 
what  a  true  child  ever  delights  in,  unspeakable 
noise  and  confusion.  A  few  of  the  fairest  amongst 
the  little  girls  were  ingeniously  dressed  as  angels, 
and  hovered  here  and  there  with  much  grace 
amongst  the  motley  crowd,  Walter  and  Cicely 
both  besought  me  to  take  the  part  of  the  doctor 
who  restored  St  George  when  he  had  been 
wounded  by  the  dragon  and  lay  at  the  point  of 
death ;  and  this,  being  most  willing  to  please 
my  dear  child,  I  consented  to  do ;  so  we  came 
into  the  hall  again,  and  went  through  our  per- 
formance with  much  ado,  receiving  the  applause 
of  the  older  folks,  and  the  unbounded  delight 
and  interest  of  all,  as  no  small  guerdon  for  our 
pains.  After  this  there  followed  some  dancing, 
and,  I  grieve  to  say,  much  drinking  of  the 
farmer's  strong  drinks,  till  some  were  laid  about 
the  floor,  and  others  dragged  to  bed,  a  woful 
ending  to  a  day  of  mirth,  and,  above  all,  to  a 
Christian  holy  day.  I  noted  with  much  anxiety 
the  conduct  of  Walter  Hawley  in  this  particular, 


Around  the  Yule  Log.  197 

and  was  well  pleased  to  observe  that  he  seemed 
to  delight  himself,  when  he  needed  refreshment, 
in  tasting  the  condiments  of  Cicely's  making, 
more  than  in  quaffing  the  drinks  that  were  so 
generally  indulged  in  by  the  men,  and  even  by 
many  of  the  women  of  the  party.  Cicely  came 
to  me  as  I  was  about  to  leave. 

"  I  am  so  glad  thou  earnest  to  Tiddeybrook 
to-day,  dear  Friar  Hildebrand,"  she  said,  laying 
her  hand  in  mine,  and  gazing  up  into  my  face, 
"  for  this  will  be  my  last  Christmas  at  home,  and 
I  could  not  bear  that  thou  shouldest  be  absent 
from  our  merry-making." 

I  started  as  she  spoke,  and  tried  to  answer  her, 
but  the  words  died  upon  my  lips.  I  turned  my 
face  away  from  hers,  that  she  might  not  read  my 
trouble  in  my  eyes.  Even  now  I  could  not  think 
calmly  of  that  change  in  her  life  which  would  so 
much  separate  her  from  me,  though  it  brought 
her  to  dwell  nearer  to  me. 

"  So  soon,  Cicely  ? "  I  stammered  out  at  last, 
still  keeping  my  eyes  away  from  her,  and  draw- 
ing my  cowl  over  my  head  to  encounter  the  cold 
night  air. 


198  Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

"Yes,  in  the  summer,  dear  Friar  Hildebrand  ; 
Walter  wills  it  so." 

I  lifted  up  my  voice  without  further  parley,  and 
pronounced  upon  her  the  blessing  of  the  Church, 
and  so  hastily  left  her,  not  trusting  myself  to 
speak  longer  with  her.  I  noticed  in  her  eyes 
that  same  look  of  troubled  wonder  that  I  had 
first  marked  upon  Whitechurch  Down,  but  I  did 
not  pause  for  another  word,  and  quickly  de- 
scended the  hill,  and  in  but  a  short  time 
found  myself  within  my  cell  again,  with  all  the 
warm  Christmas  glow  gone  from  my  heart 

"  What  have  I  to  do,"  thought  I,  "  with  family 
gatherings  and  gay  masqueradings,  women's 
smiles  and  children's  laughter?  Better  if  we 
begin  to  crucify  our  affections,  to  do  it  thoroughly 
and  be  not  only  monks  but  hermits,  utterly 
separated  from  all  the  sweet  amenities  of  life." 

I  gazed  out  of  the  window  of  my  cell ;  the 
dark  blue  sky  was  bright  with  thousands  of 
stars  and  a  crescent  moon ;  the  river  murmured 
and  plashed  over  its  rocky  bed  beneath  my 
window  as  aforetime,  and  the  words  of  the 
angels'  song  resounded  through  my  chamber- 


Around  the  Yule  Log.  199 

"  Glory  to  God  in  the  highest,  and  on  earth 
peace,  goodwill  toward  men."  The  bitterness 
(though  not  the  sadness)  passed  away  from  my 
soul ;  God's  glory,  the  world's  peace,  He  hath 
made  to  flow  from  man's  goodwill  unto  his  fellow. 
Goodwill  grudges  not  any  happiness  to  him ; 
goodwill  is  the  action  of  the  heart — not  that  mild 
speech  of  the  tongue,  not  that  mere  outside 
politeness  that  may  be  blended  all  the  time  with 
deadly  hatred.  Goodwill  means  God's  will,  for 
God  is  goodness ;  God's  will  to  man  is  shown  in 
Christ,  who,  "  though  He  was  rich,  yet  for  our 
sakes  became  poor " ;  "  who  tasted  death  for 
every  man,  bore  our  sins  in  His  own  body  on 
the  tree";  "died  that  we  might  live";  and  so 
St.  Paul  but  echoes  the  angels'  song  when  he 
writes,  "  Bear  ye  one  another's  burdens,  and  so 
fulfil  the  law  of  Christ."  This  is  "goodwill 
toward  men,"  to  rejoice  in  their  happiness,  to 
grieve  in  their  trouble,  to  help  carry  their  loads. 
Alas !  my  soul,  hast  thou  not  this  day  been 
envious  of  another's  joy?  didst  thou  not  watch 
with  a  jealous  eye  those  sweet,  half-stolen  kisses 
under  the  bough  of  mistletoe,  and  listen  with 


2oo          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

almost  an  angry  ear  to  the  love-tones  of  the  young 
miller  when  he  spoke  to  Cicely?  Preach  ever 
unto  thyself,  Friar  Hildebrand,  this  homily  that 
thou  hast  thought  out  under  the  quiet  stars  in 
thy  lonely  cell  on  Christmas  Day,  and  remember 
ever  that  for  thee  God's  glory,  the  earth's  peace, 
depend  upon  thy  cherishing  goodwill  toward 
men. 


CICELY'S    TROUBLE. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

CICEL  Y'S     TR  0  UBLE. 

JUNE  23rd,  1524. — It  is  almost  a  year  and  a  half 
since  I  wrote  last  in  this  diary ;  the  time  has 
been  passed  by  me  in  such  anxious  questionings, 
such  dreamy  doubts,  such  hard  thoughts,  that 
I  was  unwilling  to  put  them  to  paper,  know- 
ing well  how  much  all  might  be  changed  for 
me,  when  my  heart  came  out  of  the  struggle. 
I  perused  the  King's  book  with  great  interest, 
and  then  read  anxiously  all  I  could  obtain  of 
the  writings  of  Martin  Luther,  of  whom  it  seems 
necessary,  now  that  I  have  said  so  much,  that 
I  should  add  also  somewhat  more. 

This  is  a  bold  monk  of  our  own  order,  who 
hath  dared  to  oppose  in  many  things  the  will 
and  commands  of  His  Holiness  Leo  X.;  who 
hath  stigmatized  all  granting  of  indulgences  as 
sin ;  who  hath  dared  to  insist  that  every  man 

'4  ,03 


2O4          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

and  woman  should  think  for  themselves  on 
religious  matters,  and  that  they  are  responsible 
for  the  beliefs  of  their  soul  to  God  alone.  Also, 
he  much  insists  on  the  Scriptures  being  given 
freely  to  the  people,  and  descants  against  the 
excesses  and  immoralities  of  the  monks.  He 
has  been  daring  enough  to  burn  various  ponti- 
fical documents,  especially  a  Bull  of  the  Pope's, 
and  for  these  his  many  offences  he  has  been 
excommunicated,  and  during  the  last  year  °"m- 
moned  to  a  Diet  at  Worms.  In  short,  he  is, 
though  doubtless  a  man  of  much  ability  and 
boldness,  a  dangerous  heretic,  into  whose  snares 
I  myself  became  somewhat  entangled,  for  his 
books  have  a  specious  show  of  reason  about 
them  ;  but  from  which  participation,  in  however 
small  a  degree,  in  this  his  heresy,  I  do  hereby 
pronounce  myself  fairly  and  fully  absolved, 
through  the  clemency  of  our  Abbot,  who  has 
taken  much  pains  with  me  in  this  matter,  and 
shown  me  my  errors,  to  my  no  small  confusion 
and  shame  ;  from  all  which  sin  in  the  future  of 
my  life  I  cry,  with  sincerity  of  heart,  "  Good 
Lord,  deliver  me !  " 


Cicely  s  Trouble.  205 

There  are  other  matters  that  have  tried  me 
sorely.  In  the  late  summer  of  last  year,  Cicely 
came  from  the  Abbaye  Farm  to  ask  of  me  a 
favour,  namely,  that  I  would  perform  the  mar- 
riage ceremony  for  herself  and  Walter  Hawley. 
Surely  the  dear  child  has  not  possessed  the 
quickness  to  guess  my  secret,  as  I  once  believed, 
or  she  has  thought  to  cure  me  of  my  passion 
the  more  readily  by  feigning  utter  ignorance  of 
it.  Whichever  it  be,  her  request  pained  me  so 
much  that  for  a  whole  week  I  was  in  sore 
torment  of  soul ;  and  then  I  could  not  decide 
but  against  her  wishes,  fearing  lest  some  foolish 
show  of  uncontrollable,  uncrucified  emotion  might 
render  me  liable  to  suspicion  ;  which  denial  of 
her  request  caused  a  coldness  that  was  very 
hard  to  bear  to  spring  up  in  her  hitherto  tender 
and  gentle  manner  towards  me,  and  this  em- 
bittered my  life  beyond  what  I  could  have 
believed  possible,  and  brought  back  to  me  all 
that  agony  of  heart  which  I  had  supposed 
myself  to  have  escaped  from.  Once  or  twice  I 
even  thought  I  would  yield  to  her  desires,  when 
that  foolish  fear  of  betraying  myself  to  her 


206          Friar  Hilde  brand's  Cross. 

husband,  and  thereby  perchance  rendering  her 
life  a  troubled  one,  again  stayed  me,  and  this 
time  more  resolutely. 

So  the  marriage  was  celebrated,  but  I  had  no 
share  in  her  joy,  nor  even  in  her  thoughts,  and 
no  request  to  attend  the  wedding  feast,  but 
spent  all  that  day  and  night  in  my  oratory  in 
troubled  confessions  to  God,  and  in  prayer. 

September  loth,  1524. — That  miserable  bar  of 
unfriendliness  that  existed  for  so  many  months 
between  Cicely  and  myself  has  happily  been 
withdrawn.  In  the  weeks  of  sorrow  and  of 
trial  that  have  latterly  been  her  portion,  I  have 
been  of  service  to  her.  How  much  pleasure  the 
thought  gives  me !  A  month  or  so  after  I  made 
my  last  entry  in  these  pages,  I  learned  that 
Walter  Hawley  had  been  stricken  with  a  sore 
fever  that  was  raging  in  these  parts,  and  has 
even  now  great  hold  upon  many  of  the  poorer 
houses  in  Tavystoke ;  so  I  considered  that  now, 
at  last,  was  an  occasion  in  which  I  could  safely 
offer  myself  for  the  assistance  of  Cicely ;  the 
better  that  I  was  somewhat  practised  in  the 
physician's  nostrums,  and  much  familiarised  by 


Cicely's  Trouble.  207 

long  experience  with  all  manner  of  diseases. 
Nor  was  I  unused  to  nursing,  it  being  my  de- 
light to  minister,  in  some  feeble  likeness  to  our 
Divine  Master,  unto  the  bodies  as  well  as  the 
souls  of  His  people.  So  I  betook  myself,  armed 
with  some  valuable  remedies,  to  the  Abbaye 
Mills,  where  I  found  Cicely  in  very  sore  grief, 
and  Walter  stretched  upon  his  bed  of  languish- 
ing. Cicely  welcomed  me  kindly,  but  with  some 
slight  reserve,  which  melted  away,  as  I  could  see 
by  her  expressive  face,  when  I  uttered  the  follow- 
ing :  "  My  dear  children,  I  am  come  to  offer  my 
best  help  to  you  in  this  your  trouble.  Cicely,  my 
child,  thou  will  let  me  nurse  thy  good  husband 
for  thee  ;  thou  knowest  how  well  used  I  am  to 
work  of  this  kind." 

Walter  Hawley  was,  however,  the  first  to  answer 
me.  "Good  Friar  Hildebrand,"  he  said,  "for  all 
that  thou  canst  spare  my  dear  spouse,  I  shall  most 
heartily  thank  thee ;  and  if  thou  canst  persuade 
her,  which  yet  I  much  doubt,  to  keep  away  from 
me  altogether,  it  would  be  for  her  safety." 

Whereat  Cicely  drew  near  to  the  sick  man's 
couch,  and  hiding  her  sweet,  blushing  face  upon 


208          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

his  shoulder,  declared  very  hotly,  and  with  many 
tears,  that  she  could  not  leave  him,  and  that  it 
would  break  her  heart  to  be  separated  from  her 
dear  life. 

"Thou  art  right,  my  dear  child,"  said  I 
soothingly ;  "  thy  plain  duty  is  to  stay  by  thy 
husband  in  his  illness,  and  minister  as  far  as 
thou  canst  to  his  wants;  and  yet  is  it  equally 
thy  duty  to  spare  thy  strength  as  much  as  may 
be;  and  since  thou  wilt  have  me  to  do  for  thee 
all  that  it  is  in  my  power  to  do,  I  beseech  thee 
for  his  sake,  and  because  of  thy  pleasant  hopes 
for  the  future,  to  do  nothing  that  can  trouble 
him  by  injuring  thee." 

To  all  which  Cicely  was  too  glad  to  accede, 
for  she  expected,  as  she  told  me  afterwards, 
that  I  should  have  sent  her  away  from  her 
home  to  her  parents  at  Tiddey brook,  a  decree 
of  banishment  which  she  could  hardly  have  borne, 
and  which  I  should  have  thought  unwise. 

So  now,  having  first  administered  a  cooling 
drink  to  my  patient,  I  followed  Cicely  into  her 
kitchen  to  learn  all  the  symptoms  he  had  yet 
manifested,  as  well  as  other  particulars  regarding 


Cicely  s  Trouble.  209 

the  growth  of  the  disease  ;  all  which  she  readily 
confided  to  me,  and  then  she  said  tenderly : 
"Dear  Friar  Hildebrand,  I  deserve  not  that 
thou  should'st  treat  me  so  kindly,  for  I  have 
been  rough  and  discourteous  to  thee,  because 
thou  refusedst  my  request  a  year  ago ;  and  now 
thou  riskest  life  for  me  and  mine,  as  even  my 
own  folks  will  not."  And  her  sweet  face  was 
crimsoned  still  with  her  emotion  and  her 
blushes. 

I  made  answer:  "I  had  better  reasons  than 
thou  could'st  guess,  my  dear  child,  for  refusing 
thee ;  believe  me,  it  is  never  pleasant  to  me  to 
oppose  thy  wishes.  But  let  us  not  think  of 
these  things ;  if  thou  hast  forgiven  the  wilful 
disobedience  of  thy  old  friend  in  the  matter 
referred  to,  be  assured  he  thinks  not  of  thy 
annoyance  with  any,  even  the  slightest,  dis- 
approval." 

For  the  next  six  weeks  my  place  was  at  the 
Abbaye  Mills,  where,  to  the  best  of  my  know- 
ledge and  skill,  I  nursed  Walter  Hawley  through 
his  sharp  and  severe  illness,  and  spared,  in  all 
things  that  I  might  and  could,  the  strength  of  his 


2io          Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

sweet  young  wife.  And  for  some  three  days 
the  stalwart  miller's  life  hung  in  the  balance, 
and  our  hearts  were  drawn  very  close  into  com- 
munion with  the  Saviour,  who  alone  granteth 
life  or  death  unto  His  children ;  and  in  those 
hours  of  extreme  anguish  Cicely's  sweetness  and 
strength  of  soul  were  alike  manifest.  I  am  not 
disappointed  in  my  expectations  of  Cicely,  for 
her  heart  is  a  brave  heart,  and  she  was  never 
calmer  or  more  ready  to  help  her  beloved  one, 
by  word  and  look  and  sign,  than  at  that  very 
time  when  her  soul  was  most  stricken  for  his 
sake. 

Then  came  the  rallying,  the  blessed  return  of 
the  tide  of  health  into  the  exhausted  frame,  the 
trembling  step  that  tottered  at  first  around  the 
room  so  feebly,  and  then  grew  bolder,  and  at- 
tempted the  mill  garden,  and  next  the  Abbaye 
Green.  Walter  Hawley  got  well  into  his  work 
again  before  I  left  him,  or  would  consider  my 
patient  altogether  out  of  my  careful  hands.  And 
when  I  quitted  the  Mill  House,  Cicely's  dear 
voice  blessed  me,  while  her  soft  eyes  were  full 
of  glad  tears,  and  I  may  not  record,  lest  my  vain 


Cicely  s    Trouble.  211 

heart  love  too  well  to  feed  upon  her  praises,  all 
the  many  kind  words  she  spoke  to  me.  Nor  was 
Walter  one  whit  less  cordial  in  his  hearty  gratitude 
and  sincere  affection  for  me,  who  had,  they  both 
joined  to  say,  "  risked  my  life  for  his." 

Dear  Cicely,  this,  on  my  part,  is  but  a  selfish 
sacrifice.  How  could  I  be  happy  if  thou  wert 
sad  ?  Life  is  a  little  thing,  dearest  one,  to  stake 
for  thy  comfort,  thy  peace.  Thou  knowest  not 
how  often  I  have  said  to  myself,  "  I  would 
willingly  die  for  her."  Thou  knowest  not,  never 
wilt  know  now,  Cicely,  anything  of  the  love  I 
have  borne  thee  these  many  years.  Well,  be  it 
so ;  it  has  been  sweet  to  me  to  have  all  the 
dear  old  confidence  of  the  past  renewed — to  have 
thee  regard  me  even  as  a  fatherly  friend. 


MY    NAMESAKE. 


'CHAPTER  XV 

MY  NAMESAKE. 

ONLY  a  fortnight  ago  to-day  I  was  sent  for  to  the 
Abbaye  Mills.  Cicely's  baby  was  born  a  week 
before,  and  she  desired  that  I  should  baptize  the 
infant.  I  acceded  to  this  request  of  hers,  and  she 
had  a  pleasant  surprise  in  store  for  me.  When 
I  had  the  little  one  in  my  arms  and  requested 
to  know  the  name  that  had  been  chosen  for  him, 
it  was  Cicely's  own  voice,  very  low  and  sweet,  that 
answered  me  from  her  couch — "  Dear  Friar  Hilde- 
brand,  he  is  to  bear  thy  own  name,  in  token  of 
our  love  and  gratitude  towards  thee." 

"What!— Hildebrand?"  quoth  I,  half  disbe- 
lieving my  own  ears  for  very  joy. 

"Yes — Hildebrand  \"  she  answered,  smiling; 
"it  is  a  fine,  well-sounding  name,  besides  that 
to  us,  through  thee,  it  is  the  symbol  of  all  that 
is  kind  and  good." 


216  Friar  Hildebrand  's  Cross. 

"We  shall  always  esteem  it  a  favour  if  them 
grantest  our  boy  thy  name,"  said  Walter  Hawley 
heartily ;  "  and  I  would  he  may  grow  up  to  be 
half  as  good,  as  Christlike,  a  man." 

"Alas!  my  children,  ye  do  misjudge  me  utterly 
in  your  benevolence/'  saith  I,  for  I  felt  sorely 
humbled  in  spirit,  more  than  they  might  believe, 
at  these  words.  But  I  proceeded  with  the  holy 
sacrament  of  baptism,  and  the  little  one  became 
my  namesake.  It  was  a  very  pretty  token  of 
that  affection  which  is  in  their  hearts  for  me. 

August  6th,  1525. — The  last  year  has  been  a 
happy  one  to  me.  I  have  been  a  constant  visitor 
at  the  Abbaye  Mills ;  not  a  week  passes  without 
my  entering  to  inquire  after  my  boy  Hildebrand. 
My  brother  monks  laugh  heartily  at  the  interest 
the  little  one  awakens  in  me.  They  do  not  know 
— how  should  they  ? — the  tender  link  the  child 
forms  between  the  romance,  the  passion  of  my 

life,  and  my  now  subdued  and  softened  and  rever- 

•» 

ential  love  for  his  sweet  mother.  Nor  how,  as  I 
watch  in  his  opening  charms  the  bold  lineaments 
of  his  young  father's  handsome  face,  I  rejoice  that 
the  friendship  between  him  and  myself  is  so  true, 


My  Namesake.  217 

so  heartfelt.  And  I  am  also  interested  strangely 
in  the  marvels  God  works  in  the  baby  form  of 
my  little  namesake.  There  is  a  grand  creative 
power  constantly  shown  forth  in  every  new  babe 
which  His  Providence  ushers  into  the  world  ;  and 
there  is  something  wondrously  beautiful,  surely, 
in  the  development  of  all  these  faculties  of  ours, 
while  it  is  manifested  marvellously  how  God  has 
put  an  abundance  of  patience  into  the  heart  of 
every  mother,  that  enables  her  to  care  and  tend 
so  lovingly  and  continuously  for  her  child. 

When  I  reflect  that  each  man  and  woman  I 
meet  has  had  this  need  of  being  watched  and 
guarded  through  all  the  feeble  months  of  infancy, 
and  that  I  myself  experienced  the  like,  my  heart 
bounds  with  gratitude  to  my  Maker,  who  has  in 
His  wisdom  so  blended  the  joy  with  the  pain 
needed  to  nurse  and  to  bring  up  children.  Every 
new  grace,  every  smile  of  the  artless  infant,  has 
in  it  a  reward  for  the  fond  mother's  heart ;  she 
takes  such  pride  in  the  growth  of  every  limb,  in 
the  new-found  strength  of  every  muscle,  in  the 
lisping  of  every  word,  in  the  first  tottering  foot- 
steps of  the  little  feet ;  and  so  babyhood  passes 


218          Friar  Hildebrand' s  Cross. 

into  childhood,  and  the  future  perfect  manhood 
strengthens  every  day.  My  little  Hildebrar.d,  if 
ever  thou  forgettest  thy  duty  to  this  sweet  mother 
of  thine,  if  ever  thou  ceasest  to  be  good  unto  thy 
fond  father,  thou  wilt  richly  deserve  the  curses  of 
Heaven  upon  thee,  for  never  saw  I  more  tender 
nurture,  more  patient  lovingness,  manifested  to 
any  babe,  than  have  been  shown  to  thee.  The 
little  fellow  already  knows  me  well,  and  stretches 
out  his  small  dimpled  arms  and  fat  hands  to  come 
to  me,  and  hides  his  pretty  little  face  upon  my 
shoulder,  and  plays  about  my  cowl. 

"Tis  pity  thou  art  a  monk,  Friar  Hildebrand," 
Walter  Hawley  said  playfully  but  yester  eve 
when  I  was  at  the  mill,  and  the  boy  was  in  my 
arms.  "  Pity  thou  art  not  the  father  of  a  good 
house  full  of  young  ones  thyself ;  thou  lovest 
the  children  so,  and  hast  such  a  rare  power  of 
making  them  love  thee." 

Unconsciously  I  strained  little  Hildebrand  so 
tightly  to  my  heart  when  his  father  said  this, 
that  he  made  up  his  little  mouth  to  cry,  and  was 
only  comforted  by  his  mother,  who  at  once  began 
to  humour  him,  and  then  took  him  from  me,  with 


My  Namesake.  219 

a  playful  protest  that  his  ^ttle  shoe  wanted  to 
be  tied.  I  went  out  then,  abruptly  enough, 
straight  into  the  mill  garden,  where  the  great 
hollyhocks  were  in  gorgeous  array  of  bloom  ; 
where  the  sweet-briar  roses  scented  the  air  deli- 
ciously  ;  where  the  bees  droned  in  delight  at  the 
abundance  of  sweets,  and  where  the  air  was  hot 
and  heavy  with  the  dark  golden  glory  of  the  set- 
ting sunbeams  of  that  warm,  still,  autumn  evening. 
The  chords  of  my  unconquered  love  had  been 
somewhat  rudely  played  upon,  and  the  string  still 
jarred  painfully.  I  strolled  around  once,  twice, 
thrice,  striving  to  subdue  the  torture  of  my  soul, 
when  the  miller  came  out  and  joined  me :  I  could 
see  irresolution,  unusual  to  him,  upon  his  face, 
when  I  turned  mine  to  him,  and  yet  he  tried  to 
speak. 

"Friar  Hildebrand,"  said  he  at  last,  "I  am  a 
blunt,  stupid  fellow,  and  thou  must  pardon  me ; 
I  never  guessed  until  Cicely  hath  just  now  told 
me." 

My  face  I  felt  grow  colourless  as  I  listened  unto 
him.  "  Cicely  ? "  I  exclaimed,  below  my  breath. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  Cicely  telleth  me  I  have 
'5 


220          Friar  Hildebrand*  s  €ross. 

made  a  blunder ;  that  thou  hast  had  a  good 
reason,  as  she  believeth,  for  becoming  a  monk, 
good  Friar,  and  that  I  have  made  but  a  rude, 
rough  speech  unto  thee." 

"What  doth  Cicely  say  more?"  quoth  I,  feeling 
my  brain  grow  giddy,  and  my  steps  unsteady,  as 
I  spoke  these  words. 

"She  saith,"  continued  Walter,  "that  in  thy 
youth  thou  hast  loved,  and  that  thou  hast  been 
unhappy  in  thy  love,  good  Friar,  and  so  thou 
didst  abjure  marriage  for  ever." 

I  gave  a  great  sob,  and  sank  down  in  a  faint 
upon  the  ground,  whereat  Walter  raised  me,  and 
brought  me  in  his  strong  arms  into  the  house 
again,  and  threw  open  my  gown  at  the  throat, 
and  dashed  water  upon  my  face,  and  lifted  the 
heavy  iron  cross  and  rosary  from  my  neck ;  alas ! 
no  man,  no  woman  ever  may  lift  for  me  the 
heavier  cross  beneath.  And  when  I  came  to 
myself  again,  Cicely  was  bending  over  me,  with 
a  face  full  of  tender  anxiety,  and  she  pressed  her 
soft  cool  hand  upon  my  burning  brow,  and  then 
she  made  me  drink  some  of  her  simple  medicine 
which  she  kept  close  at  hand  for  sudden  ailments. 


My  Namesake.  221 

So  now  I  understand  all,  and  Cicely  knows, 
guesses  nothing  of  that  inward  cross  I  wear  daily, 
hourly  for  her  sweet  sake.  She  only  thinks  that 
some  buried  loves  and  joys,  of  which  she  hath 
reminded  me,  form  the  sorrow  of  my  life.  Per- 
haps this  is  best,  perhaps  it  will  make  all  things 
more  easy  both  to  her  and  to  me,  to  leave  this 
fancy  uncontradicted.  God  knows.  But  it  gives 
me  some  sore  pain  to  feel  that  she  may  not  even 
accept  of  the  sacrifice  I  have  laid  upon  the  altar 
of  her  happiness. 


THE    STORY    OF    SQUIRE    CHILDE 
OF    PLYMSTOKE. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

THE  STORY  OF  SQUIRE   CHILD E   OF  PLYMSTOKE. 

I  HAVE  been  so  busy  of  late  with  other  matters, 
that  I  have  had  but  little  time  to  devote  to  the 
transcription  and  illumination  of  my  manuscripts. 
I  have  spent  less  time  than  of  yore  in  my  cell 
dreaming  amidst  my  paints  and  brushes,  and 
mingled  much  more  with  my  fellows,  being 
especially  interested  and  occupied  with  my  chil- 
dren in  the  school,  and  my  dear  little  namesake 
at  the  Abbaye  Mills.  But  the  manuscript  on 
which  I  am  now  occupied  arrests  my  attention. 
Let  me  carefully  re-peruse  it  in  order  to  choose 
the  most  appropriate  subjects  for  my  pictures : — 

In  the  reign  of  Edward  the  Third  of  blessed 
memory,  a  great  prince  truly,  and  one  that 
deserveth  ever  to  be  had  in  loving  remembrance 
of  all  his  subjects,  there  liveth  at  a  noble  mansion 


226          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

in  Plymstoke  one  Richard  Childe,  and  forasmuch 
as  divers  strange  adventures  happened  unto  him 
during  life,  and  unto  his  bodye  after  death,  I 
have  seen  fit  to  write  down  all  I  know,  and  to 
state  fairlie  and  fullie  the  meanes  whereby  our 
Abbaye  obtaineth  possession  of  his  landes.  And 
herein  I  would  observe  that  there  are  many  who 
accuse  the  friars  of  Tavystoke  of  great  greedinesse 
and  ill-nature,  and  who  even  issert  that  our 
Abbaye  came  not  lawfullie  by  these  his  lands, 
but  I  am  quite  content  to  leave  the  whole  matter 
unto  the  kind  reader,  who  will  be  the  best  judge 
between  us  and  our  enemies,  more  especiallie  the 
men  of  Plymstoke. 

This  Richard  Childe,  being  left  an  orphan  with 
a  very  goodlie  estate  just  towards  the  mouth  of 
the  Plym,  and  close  unto  an  excellent  harbour, 
having  the  town  of  Sutton  upon  the  opposite 
shore,  and  now  being  come  unto  mature  age, 
marrieth.  And  the  ladye  upon  whom  he  chose 
to  confer  the  honour  of  his  hand,  and  the  goodlie 
riches  of  his  estate  was  also,  like  unto  himselfe, 
an  orphan.  But  not  so  happilie  placed  as  to 
possessions,  in  that  she  was,  save  for  the  rentes 


The  Story  of  Squire  Ckilde  of  Plymstoke.  227 

of  a  petty  farm,  whereon  she  lived  with  her 
guardian,  a  pennilesse  mayden.  Yet  had  she  two 
choice  gifts  in  the  eyes  of  Richard  Childe,  namelie, 
a  sweet  temper,  and  a  very  lovely  face,  so  that 
her  name,  Amy,  became  her  well,  for  that  she 
was  very  trulie  Aim£e  by  her  devoted  lover. 
Now,  if  any  reading  this,  doe  wonder  that  I,  Friar 
Henricus,  a  grave  Augustinian,  as  my  habit  would 
suggest,  should  thus  play  upon  a  ladye's  name, 
or  trifle  somewhat  about  these  love  matters,  I 
would  forewarn  him  to  remember  that  we  monks 
do  learn  many  secrets  in  the  Confessional,  and 
that  it  becometh  an  historian  to  enter  into  the 
circumstances  of  his  heroes  and  heroines.  But  to 
proceed  :  Richard  Childe,  being  a  hot  wooer,  and 
an  ardent  admirer  of  fair  Amy's  charms,  and  she 
having  no  proper  home  to  stay  in,  being  doubt- 
lesse  willing,  he  presentlie  bringeth  her  unto 
Plymstoke,  and  for  a  season  enjoyeth  unto  the 
full  his  home  and  his  fair  wife.  But  being  a  great 
hunter  in  the  forest  of  Dartmoore,  he  sometimes 
leaveth  her,  to  proceed  thither  with  a  troop  of 
sportsmen,  while  she  standeth  in  the  pleasant 
park  upon  the  terraced  walk  of  her  husband's 


228          Friar  Hildebrancl'1  s  Cross. 

mansion,  and  watcheth  their  departure,  and  kiss- 
eth  her  pretty  hand  to  her  dear  lord  as  he  rideth 
away.  For  some  happy  months,  near  unto  the 
space  of  a  year,  there  cometh  nothing  to  cloud 
this  their  great  joy  and  peace,  and  there  springeth 
up  likewise  the  hope,  dear  unto  both,  that  there 
would  not  be  wanting  unto  them  an  heir  to  suc- 
ceed unto  so  much  comfort  and  to  so  large 
demesne,  the  which  endeareth  the  sweet  Amy  yet 
more  unto  her  tender  spouse,  who  leaveth  her 
more  unwillinglie  than  ever,  and  returneth  to  her 
with  more  joy.  Now  it  came  to  pass  that  the 
winter,  into  which  the  seasons  had  drawn  round, 
was  more  than  commonlie  severe,  and  the  abun- 
dance of  wild  animals  in  the  forest  greater  than 
was  wont,  and  Richard  Childe  proposeth  to  joyn 
a  company  of  hunters  for  some  excellent  sport, 
and  this  he  doeth  the  more  readilie  for  that  his 
young  and  well-beloved  wife  had  expressed  some 
desire  for  a  daintie  morselle  of  venison,  and  that 
of  her  husband's  finding,  for  she  believeth  him 
to  know  better  than  any  other  the  best  deer  and 
the  best  means  of  killing  them  and  retaining  the 
flavour  of  their  meat.  So  with  a  very  tender 


The  Story  of  Squire  Chitde  of  Plymstoke.  229 

parting,  and  meaninge  to  be  back  at  eve,  he 
setteth  out  upon  the  white  landscape,  for  alreadye 
the  winter  snows  had  made  their  first  descent 
upon  the  earth.  The  morning  was  fair  and  bright, 
with  plenty  of  sunshine,  but  a  very  keen  frost ; 
and  as  he  rode  off,  often  looking  back  unto  the 
window  where  stood  the  beautiful  Amy,  her  sweet 
face  close  unto  it,  thereby  to  watch  him  the  longer, 
the  hoofs  of  his  handsome  horse  rang  out  sharp 
upon  the  hard  ground,  and  the  boughs  of  his 
fine  old  trees  sparkled  as  if  there  had  been  in  the 
night  a  shower  from  heaven  of  all  manner  of 
fine  jewels ;  for  upon  them  there  flashes  the 
red  tint  of  the  ruby,  the  green  of  the  emerald, 
the  orange  of  the  topaz,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
diamonds  which,  as  I  may  safelie  say,  every  other 
frost-drop  hath  been  transformed  into.  Amy 
admireth  for  a  long  while  the  beautie  of  nature 
from  her  pleasant  window,  and  then  turneth  to 
the  warmth  of  the  great  fire,  and  having  chafed 
her  hands  thereat,  taketh  up  her  tapestrie  frame 
and  calleth  for  her  maid  Jennifer,  who  spinneth 
in  an  ante-room,  and  biddeth  her  bring  her  wheel, 
and  so  chatteth  with  her  until  noon. 


230          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

But  the  day  weareth  away  somewhat  slowlie 
unto  Amy,  and  she  longs  for  her  lord's  return. 
The  dark  night  descendeth  swiftlie  and  earlie 
upon  the  world  at  that  season  in  this  our  land, 
and  the  heart  of  the  ladye  grew  sick  and  faint 
at  the  long  tarriance  of  her  husband,  while  all 
the  household  wondereth  that  he,  who  hath  been 
so  eager  to  return  unto  his  ladye,  now  so  long 
delayeth  his  coming.  Hour  after  hour  passeth, 
and  suspense  deepeneth  into  anxietie,  and  as  the 
night  waxes  to  its  height  anxietie  is  once  more 
pushed  out  by  a  yet  sterner  foe  to  peace — dread. 
But  Amy,  tender  and  gentle  as  she  is,  hath  yet 
a  patient,  much  enduring  heart ;  she  hopeth  the 
best,  tryeth  to  believe  that  he  taketh  shelter  in 
some  shepherd's  hut  upon  the  bleak  moorland, 
or  in  the  depths  of  the  forest,  and  striveth  to 
sleep  ;  but  her  slumbers  are  disturbed  by  troubled 
dreams.  Morning  breaketh,  and  the  weary  hours 
drag  themselves  slowlie  by,  and  still  Richard 
Childe  cometh  not.  And  now  the  brave  heart 
of  the  young  wife  that  had  kept  up  so  stronglie 
hitherto,  giveth  way  grievouslie,  for  her  weaknesse 
increaseth  upon  her,  and  the  hour  of  her  sore 


The  Story  of  Squire  Childe  of  Plymstoke.  231 

trial  draweth  close  at  hand.  Once  more  the 
evening  shadows  fall  upon  the  white  earth,  and 
the  clouds  that  had  been  gathering  all  day  begin 
to  fall  softlie  and  incessantlie  to  the  ground  in  the 
fast  blinding  snow. 

And  now  all  hope  faileth  the  sweet  ladye  of 
Plymstoke,  she  giveth  way  unto  despair. 

"  He  might,"  saith  she  unto  her  maid,  "  have 
strayed  too  far  to  return  unto  his  home  last  night, 
but  now,  Jennifer,  that  the  elements  are  also 
against  us,  there  seemeth  no  hope  that  I  shall 
ever  meet  my  own  deare  hearte  againe." 

"  Alack-a-day !  dear  mistresse,"  answereth  her 
faithful  Jennifer,  "  do  not  suffer  thyself  to  be  thus 
distressed,  my  good  master  will  no  doubt  come 
ere  long ;  perhaps  he  hath  alreadye  entered  upon 
his  own  domains,  and  then  he  careth  nought,  even 
for  this  thick  snow,  with  thee  his  sweet  wife  and 
his  dear  home  and  a  bright  fire  in  view." 

And  Jennifer  stirreth  the  wood  into  a  blaze, 
and  layeth  on  another  handful  to  keep  up  the 
ruddie  glow,  that  warmeth  all  the  room,  as  it 
seemeth,  by  its  deep  red  light  But  through  every 
hour  of  that  second  night  of  the  Squire's  absence, 


232  Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

his   wife's   agonie    increaseth   painfullie,   notwith- 
standing all  that  Jennifer  doth  to  comfort  her. 

"  And  do  but  bethink  thee,"  she  saith  unto  her 
maid,  "that  it  was  I  who  sent  him  forth  upon 
this  so  lucklesse  errand ;  that  it  was  I  who  could 
not  find  a  mouthful  sweet  enough  to  please  my 
wilful  fancy  in  all  this  fine  house,  and  faire  dairie, 
and  bbuntifull  larder  he  hath  given  me,  but  must 
endanger  my  dear  heart's  life  for  my  so  foolish 
whiir  3  " 

And  with  that  she  falleth  to  sobbing  and  crying, 
as  if  her  heart  would  break,  and  Jennifer  striveth, 
but  in  vain,  to  comfort  her.  So  the  sweete  soul, 
every  sad  hour,  wasteth  more  and  more  of  the 
strength  she  soe  much  needed. 

At  break  of  day,  being  laid  upon  her  uneasy 
couch,  she  cannot  contend  with  her  anguish,  and 
life  flickereth  fast  away  in  the  sore  struggle.  At 
the  moment  that  an  infant's  cry  resoundeth  in 
the  quiet  room,  there  is  heard  below  the  quick 
tramp  of  a  horse's  hoofs  upon  the  soft  snowy 
ground  in  the  avenue,  and  presentlie  they  stop 
at  the  mansion  of  Plymstoke,  and  the  master  of 
the  house  flingeth  himself,  in  haste,  from  his 


The  Story  of  Squire  Childe  of  Plymstoke.  233 

saddle,  shaketh  the  snow  from  his  clothes,  and 
entereth  at  the  alreadye  open  door. 

Doubtlesse  he  misseth  the  sweet  face  of  his 
Amy ;  for  his  first  question  is  of  her,  and  the  sad 
faces  and  low  voices  around  him  gave  a  spur 
unto  his  worst  fears.  He  throws  aside  his  wet 
garments,  wrappeth  himselfe  speedilie  in  a  loose 
coat  that  is  brought  unto  him,  and  seeketh  her 
chamber.  There  sitteth  beside  the  sweet  ladye, 
supporting  her  in  her  arms,  the  faithful  Jennifer, 
and  there  lieth  a  baby  hastilie  swaddled,  whose 
birth  causeth  but  little  joy,  upon  the  nurse's  knee. 
The  pale  face  of  the  sweet  young  mother  turneth 
a  little  at  the  sound  of  the  opening  door,  and  as 
she  catcheth  sight  of  him  so  long  looked  for,  she 
stretcheth  forth  her  arms  eagerlie  unto  him,  while 
a  bright  flush  of  crimson  tint  spreadeth  the  white, 
worn  cheeks. 

"  My  dear,  dear  love,"  she  saith,  panting  for 
breath  between  each  trembling  word,  and  the 
Squire  of  Plymstoke  draweth  nigh  gravelie,  gentlie, 
and  taketh  the  place  that  Jennifer  withdraweth 
from.  With  all  the  might  of  his  manhood,  he 
forceth  back  the  grief  and  sorrow  and  pain  that 


234          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

crush  him  to  the  earth,  as  he  beholdeth  her  thus, 
and  he  only  presseth  his  lips  upon  her  sweet 
mouth,  with  whispered  words  of  tendernesse.  At 
this  moment  cometh  a  monk  of  the  Abbaye  of 
Plympton  who  liveth  at  an  oratorie  near  by,  and 
hath  been  sent  for  to  shrive  this  precious  soule, 
to  give  her  the  last  sacrament  and  absolution  ;  all 
which  comfortable  ordinances  she  receiveth  calmly, 
and  then  turneth  and  layeth  her  wearie  head  upon 
her  husband's  breast,  and  whispereth,  "  I  thought 
thou  wast  dead,  dear  love,  and  that  fear  hath 
killed  me,  I  think.  Hast  thou  seen  our  baby,  my 
Richard,  and  art  thou  not  well  pleased  with 
him  ? " 

There  was  a  faint  smile  now  upon  the  gentle 
mouth.  "Amy,"  saith  the  poor  squire,  with  a 
great  sob  that  he  could  not  keep  back,  "  the  boy 
hath  cost  me  too  dear,  but  God  knoweth  how  I 
love  him  for  thy  sweet  sake." 

"  Bring  him  unto  us,  good  dame,"  saith  Amy 
unto  the  nurse — she  becometh  strangely  calm  for 
these  last  precious  minutes  of  her  young  life — 
"  and  lay  him  soe  upon  his  father's  knees." 

Then  did  both  parents  gaze  down  fondlie  upon 


The  Story  of  Squire  Childe  of  Plymstoke.  235 

the  upturned  but  unconscious  face  of  their  child, 
and  in  the  mother's  eyes  there  was  a  love  so 
strong  and  pure  and  tender,  as  if  by  that  gaze 
she  would  instil  into  her  child's  heart  an  answer- 
ing love  for  her,  that  should  keep  childhood  and 
youth  and  manhood  pure  and  true  and  good. 
Then  she  returneth  to  thoughts  of  her  fond  lord. 
"And  where,  then,  hast  thou  been  all  this  wearie 
while,  dear  heart  ? "  she  asked  him  ;  and  he  re- 
turneth, "I  strayed  far  to  light  upon  thy  choice 
morsel,  dearest — farther,  much  farther  than  I 
knew — and  lost  my  way  in  the  intricate  turns 
of  the  forest,  where  I  wandered  for  hours,  cold 
and  weary,  and  almost  hopelesse ;  then  cometh 
one  of  the  rough  shepherds  of  that  region  across 
my  path,  and  unto  him  I  offer  my  purse,  if  soe  be 
that  he  will  bring  me  to  thy  side  againe,  the  which 
he  cannot  do,  not  knowing  the  paths  sufficientlie, 
but  leadeth  me  unto  his  old  father,  who  guideth 
travellers,  and  even  his  own  friends,  through  all 
that  far-reaching  forest,  as  if  every  path  were 
drawn  upon  a  map  in  his  old  brain.  He  bargain- 
eth  to  come  with  me,  as  soon  as  the  sun  is  up,  and 

he  brought  me  in  safetie,  until  I  once  more  recog- 

16 


236          Friar  Hiidebrand's  Cross. 

nised  the  land,  and  knew  my  path,  and  only  for 
this  blinding  snowstorm,  which  has  set  me  again 
most  woefully  adrift,  I  should  have  reached  thee 
several  hours  ago.  I  have  brought  thy  venison, 
Amy."  Amy's  arms  were  entwined  fondlie  about 
his  neck. 

"  I  have  been  very  weak — I  might  have  had 
more  patience,  Richard ;  had  I  but  done  so  thou 
mightest  still  have  had  both  thy  wife  and  thy 
son  for  many  a  long  day." 

Then  softlie,  with  her  husband's  kisses  on  her 
lips,  she  sinketh  to  sleep — a  quiet  peaceful  sleep  ; 
once  she  murmureth,  and  the  Squire  of  Plymstoke 
bendeth  down  his  ear  to  listen. 

"I  would  have  him  called  by  thy  name, 
dearest,"  she  saith,  with  her  eyes  closed,  and  soe 
sleepeth  againe.  For  an  hour  or  two  the  watcher 
sat  quite  quietlie ;  the  young  mother  lieth  still  as 
before,  the  babe  lieth  still  upon  the  nurse's  knee, 
and  outside  the  window  the  white  snow  still 
falleth,  falleth  silentlie. 

Then  Jennifer  gazeth  down  upon  the  face  of  her 
mistresse,  and  up  into  that  of  her  master,  and  saith, 
in  a  broken  voice,  "  She  is  gone,  sir." 


The  Story  of  Squire  Childe  of  Plymstoke.  237 

And  the  babe  waketh,  and  crieth  piteouslie,  as  if 
it  knoweth  the  meaning  of  those  sad  words,  and 
that  it  was  motherlesse,  and  the  nurse  carrieth  it 
from  the  chamber,  while  Jennifer  repeateth  to  her 
master  the  tidings,  "  She  hath  gone,  sir." 

And  the  Squire  looketh  at  her  sternlie,  with  a 
stony  eye,  that  cannot  shed  a  tear,  and  turneth 
him  and  looketh  upon  the  cold  form  in  his  arms, 
and  seeth  that  the  soft  sweet  beautie  of  the  face 
groweth  rigid  in  death,  and  that  the  hands  he 
seeketh  to  clasp  fall  motionlesse  upon  the  coverlid. 
And  then  he  layeth  her  down,  kisseth  the  icy  lips, 
groaneth  aloud,  as  Jacob  did  of  old,  "  Oh,  God  !  I 
am  bereaved,"  and  hurrieth  away.  It  doth  not 
become  me  to  linger  too  long  over  this  moving 
part  of  my  story ;  the  little  baby,  born  amidst  the 
snows  of  winter,  seemeth  unable  to  thrive,  de- 
prived of  the  soft  warmth  of  its  own  mother's 
breast,  although  a  good  foster-mother  seeketh  to 
cherish  it  as  her  own,  and  ere  the  grave  of  Amy 
Childe  hath  been  closed  a  week,  the  little  one, 
robed  in  its  death  clothes,  is  given  back  unto  her 
fond  arms.  And  to  Richard  Childe  it  seemeth  in 
his  sorrow  that  the  fair  snow  which  still  covereth 


238          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

the  earth  is  but  its  giant  shroud  ;  so  much  doth 
nature  seem  to  mourn  with  him  in  his  so  great 
losse. 

The  months-  roll  by,  the  seasons  change,  for 
neither  man's  griefs  nor  joys  can  hold  back  time 
in  its  flight,  yet  doth  the  sorrow  of  the  Squire  of 
Plymstoke  still  dwell  livinglie  in  his  heart ;  and 
no  other  woman  that  he  meeteth  taketh  for  him, 
in  ever  so  small  a  measure,  the  place  of  his  Amy, 
his  beloved. 

The  snow  shroud  has  melted  from  the  face  of 
nature ;  she  hath  been  unwrapped  from  her  grave 
clothes  by  the  hands  of  the  Almighty  One,  and 
rejoiceth  in  the  glory  of  her  resurrection,  but  on 
the  heart  of  Richard  Childe  there  still  lie  the 
cold  chill  of  the  grave,  the  snowy  covering  of  the 
shroud.  He  busieth  himself  with  his  tenantry  and 
his  farms,  and  his  grounds ;  yet  he  feeleth  a  chill 
misery  at  his  heart,  that  no  heir  of  his  own  flesh 
and  blood  shall  ever  reap  the  benefit  of  all  his 
cares.  A  saddened  but  kindlie  man  doth  the 
Squire  ever  seem,  as  the  years  roll  on  until  that 
he  hath  become  of  middle  age,  and  the  good 
women  tell  their  growing  up  daughters  around 


The  Story  of  Squire  Chitdeoj  Plymstoke.  239 

them  of  the  faithfulncsse  of  his  love  unto  his  sweet 
lost  Amy.  And  about  this  time  he  maketh  his 
last  will  and  testament,  wherein  he  ordaineth  that 
wherever  he  chanceth  to  be  buried,  unto  that 
church  shall  his  lands  belong,  perchance  expecting 
that  he  should  find  sepulture  where  he  would  most 
like  beside  the  bones  of  his  so  dearly  loved  wife, 
and  their  one  and  only  child.  And  still  his 
favourite  amusement  is  that  of  hunting,  and  the 
wilder  and  more  desolate  the  regions  of  Dartmoor 
into  which  he  plungeth,  the  better  it  seemeth  to 
suit  his  saddened  heart.  And  he  ever  rideth  on 
a  well-appointed  and  handsome  horse ;  and  it  was 
noted  that  about  this  time  he  had  a  very  favourite 
steed,  on  which  he  lavisheth  many  caresses,  and 
which  he  treateth  almost  as  though  it  were  en- 
dowed with  reason  :  a  faculty  which,  howbeit  it 
may  sometimes  be  difficult  to  understand  in  what 
way  dumb  animals  know  so  much  without  it,  yet 
is  it  altogether  unscriptural  (Balaam's  ass  alone 
to  the  contrary)  to  suppose  they  possess.  Never- 
theless I  shall  not  enter  herein  into  an  argument 
of  such  vast  magnitude,  but  proceed  at  once  with 
my  story  of  the  Squire  of  Plymstoke. 


240          Frtar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

The  winter  snows  had  once  more  fallen,  when  he 
rideth  forth  to  hunt,  along  with  four  or  five  gentle- 
men of  his  neighbourhood,  into  the  wilds  of  the 
neighbouring  forest  of  Dartmoore,  being  mounted 
upon  his  favourite  black  steed,  unto  which  he  had 
given  the  cognomen  of  "  Pride  of  Plymstoke."  So 
now,  having  had  some  good  sport,  they  separate 
somewhat  from  each  other,  in  order  to  bring  the 
wild  animals  more  into  their  power  ;  and  being 
thus  apart,  the  snow-clouds  gather  in  the  west, 
and  the  soft,  flakey  moisture  commenceth  to  fall. 
For  somewhile  this,  our  hero,  hath  no  fear  what- 
ever to  chill  his  blood,  and  continueth  his  ride ; 
but  alas !  when  he  trieth  to  rejoin  his  company, 
the  snow  blindeth  him  soe  that  he  seeth  nothing 
that  is  more  than  a  yard  or  two  ahead  of  him,  and 
as  the  shadows  of  the  evening  fall  likewise  at  this 
time,  he  soon  discovereth  himself  to  be  lost.  Now 
his  only  chance  is  to  fall  in,  as  he  did  before-time, 
with  the  hut  of  a  shepherd  ;  but  in  this  hope, 
being  altogether  unfortunate,  he  feeleth  a  sad 
lonelinesse  to  oppress  his  spirit,  and  groweth 
sadder  still,  as  he  reflecteth  that  he  runneth  but 
small  chance  of  decent  sepulture,  or  that  the 


The  Story  of  Squire  Ckilde  of  Plymstoke.  241 

prayers  of  the  Church  shall  be  read  over  him, 
spite  of  that  will  of  his  which  holdeth  out  such 
great  reward  to  that  place  which  should  receive 
his  ashes.  So  now,  being  unwilling  to  become  the 
food  of  carrion  bird  or  wild  beast,  doth  he  resort 
to  a  strange  means  of  insuring. what  he  desires,  to 
the  best  of  his  power,  and  being  greatlie  benumbed 
with  cold,  he  determineth  to  sacrifice  the  "  Pride  of 
Plymstoke  "  unto  his  sore  need.  Yet  not  without 
a  pang  doubtlesse  doth  he  regard  the  gentle  eyes 
of  the  poor  animal,  who  is  now  much  tamed  down 
from  his  usual  fieri  ness  by  these  hours  of  cold  and 
hunger,  soe  that  it  is  as  great  mercy  perchance 
unto  the  beast  as  unto  himself  to  kill  him,  which 
he  doth  most  speedilie  and  mercifullie,  and  then, 
disembowelling  him,  creepeth  into  his  warm  skin 
to  somewhat  recover  himself  from  that  fatal 
numbness  that  hath  seized  him — at  least  so  far  as 
to  make  this  sentence  which  followeth,  to  call 
attention  to  and  to  confirm  his  alreadie  made  last 
will  and  testament ;  for  pulling  out  a  piece  of 
parchment  from  his  pocket,  being  a  loose  fragment 
that  had  surrounded  a  deed  he  had  that  day 
signed,  he  wrote  thereon  with  the  point  of  an 


242  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

arrow,  which  he  dippeth  in  the  horse's  blood,  these 
words,  taking  care  to  sign  them  with  sufficient 
accuracy  to  make  all  sure, — 

"  He  that  finds  and  brings  me  to  my  tomb, 
The  land  of  Plymstoke  shall  be  his  doom." 

And  these  words,  or  near  like  unto  them,  I  have 
myself  seen  graven  on  Crockern  Tor,  in  the  afore- 
said forest,  a  place  which  is  called  by  all  the 
people  for  many  miles  around  "Childe  of  Plym- 
stoke's  Tomb."  But  whether  this  last  work  hath 
been  done  by  himself,  which  I  conceive  not  pos- 
sible, he  being  so  benumbed,  or  by  some  other 
hand  in  commemoration  of  him,  which  is  the  more 
likely,  I  cannot  certainlie  say,  howbeit  thus  they 
run  with  but  little  variation  from  the  above, — 

u  They  first  that  find  and  bring  me  to  my  grave, 
My  lands  which  are  at  Plymstoke  then  shall  have.* 

The  next  person  to  pass  by  that  way  when  the 
snows  were  somewhat  abated  findeth  him  thus, 
and  hath  the  sad  story  as  it  were  all  pictured 
before  him,  which  news,  together  with  that  of 
Childe's  last  will  and  testament,  he  being  some- 


The  Story  of  Squire  Childe  of  Plymstoke.  243 

what  in  the  interest  of  the  Abbaye  of  Tavystoke, 
doth  speedilie  acquaint  the  Abbot  therewith,  who 
sendeth  forth  at  once  some  of  his  monks  to  bring 
the  body  for  burial  in  the  Abbaye  Church  of  St. 
Mary  and  Renan  with  all  speed,  the  which  we  do 
not  doubt,  could  this  poor  gentleman  have  spoken, 
would  have  been  much  to  his  mind,  inasmuch 
as  all  manner  of  prayers,  masses,  chants,  and 
requiems  would  thus  be  his  portion.  But  the 
inhabitants  of  Plymstoke,  having  gotten  some 
knowledge  that  they  might  hereby  lose  the 
gentleman's  lands,  make  all  speed  likewise.  But 
because  of  the  zeal  of  the  monks  for  the  honour 
and  enrichment  of  our  Abbaye  and  the  glory  of 
God,  these  doe  arrive  too  late  upon  Dartmoore,  and 
only  in  time  to  see  in  the  distance  a  bier  borne  by 
several  stout  Augustinians,  while  only  the  dead 
horse  remaineth  to  them  for  their  so  great  paines  ; 
yet  are  there  more  men  from  Plymstoke  covetous 
to  possesse  the  body  of  Richard  Childe,  and  yet 
more  to  gain  his  goodlie  estate,  which  our  Abbot 
hearing  something  of  and  how  the  neighbours  of 
Childe  seek  to  circumvent  his  plans,  he  causeth 
a  slight  bridge  to  be  thrown  across  the  Tavy, 


244          Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

where  was  no  crossing  hitherto,  for  the  body  to 
be  taken  over  upon,  lest  some  opposition  to  the 
passage  of  the  said  corpse  should  be  met  with 
at  the  Abbaye  bridge,  their  accustomed  way  of 
transit.  And  this  foresight  of  the  Abbot  was  not 
by  any  means  without  occasion,  for  no  sooner  had 
the  party  arrived  at  Tavystoke,  and  set  their  feet 
upon  the  new  bridge,  than  it  was  found  there  were 
alreadye  planted  at  the  old  one  a  number  of  the 
Plymstoke  men  readye  and  willing  to  dispute  the 
right  of  the  monks  to  the  dead  man.  But  having 
alreadye  won  their  prize  by  an  excellent  strata- 
gem, and  being  now  in  their  own  lands,  our  black 
monks  are  no  longer  in  fear  of  opposition,  and  not 
heeding  the  little  crowd  of  the  men  of  Plymstoke 
who  gaze  with  troubled  eyes  across  the  Tavy  at 
the  unexpected  procession  along  the  Abbaye 
Green,  nor  even  giving  any  invitation  to  them  to 
attend  the  funeral  obsequies  of  their  departed 
worthy,  for  that  it  might  lead  unto  a  quarrel,  the 
friars  bear  the  bier  straightway  to  the  Abbaye 
church,  where  the  body  receiveth  decent  burial  in 
a  tomb  alreadye  prepared  for  that  purpose,  and 
a  sufficient  number  of  masses  and  requiems  for 


The  Story  of  Squire  Childe  of  Plymstoke.  245 

the  soul  of  the  departed  are  performed  for  the  said 
Richard  Childe  even  unto  my  day,  in  the  which 
I  have  often  joyned.  His  possessions  were  hence- 
forth the  property,  as  by  his  will  ordained,  of  our 
most  faire  and  excellent  Abbaye,  to  the  glory  of 
God  and  the  honour  of  the  Virgin.  And  .  for  that 
it  was  found  an  extremely  convenient  and  well- 
appointed  place  whereat  to  erect  a  more  durable 
bridge,  the  temporary  wooden  erection  gave  way 
for  a  suitable  one  of  stone,  which  standeth  unto 
this  day,  and  beareth  the  name  which  the  people 
of  Plymstoke  in  their  anger  first  gave  unto  that 
first  structure,  of  Guile  Bridge.  And  near  unto 
it  have  been  built  in  my  time  our  substantial 
Abbaye  mills,  whereat  lives  my  honest  friend 
Bevil  Hawley. 

Now,  in  this  matter  of  thus  gaining  the  lands  of 
Childe  of  Plymstoke,  I  understand  not  how  any 
can  account  our  Abbot  and  monks  blameworthy, 
seeing  they  themselves  doubtlesse  would  willinglie 
do  the  like,  and  that,  perchance,  for  smaller  gain, 
and  also  that  the  poore  gentleman  hath  received 
that  very  good  for  the  which  he  was  willing  to 
part  with  his  domaines ;  and  seeing  also  that  it 


246  Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

advanceth  God's  glory,  and  the  honour  of  the  Holy 
Catholick  Faith. 

Here  endeth  ye  story  of  Squire  Childe,  of  Plym- 
stoke,  written  by  me,  Friar  Henricus,  in  the  month 
of  September,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord's  incar- 
nation 1400,  being  the  first  year  of  the  reign  of 
King  Henry  the  Fourth. 


STRANGE    NEWS    FROM 
GERMANY. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

STRANGE  NEWS  FROM  GERMANY. 

WHAT  a  quaint  old  story  is  this  of  Squire  Childe ! 
My  brother  monk,  who  wrote  it,  moves  me  to 
both  smiles  and  tears  as  I  peruse  it — smiles  at 
his  smart  casuistry — and  yet  methinks  I  do  not  so 
much  blame  our  abbot  and  monks  for  their  dili- 
gence in  obtaining  the  body  of  the  poor  squire ; 
only  had  there  been  no  land  belonging  unto 
him,  the  charitable  office  of  his  sepulture  would,  I 
fancy,  have  been  likely  to  be  somewhat  delayed, 
if  not  altogether  neglected.  My  tears  flow  at  the 
simple  death  scene  of  Amy  Childe  and  her  tender 
infant,  and  the  sad  loneliness  of  'heart  of  her 
bereaved  husband.  Then  his  melancholy  death 
in  the  forest  ;  the  icy  chill  that  fastened  itself 
upon  him ;  the  numbing  touch  of  the  keen  north 
wind  ;  the  pitilessness  of  the  driving  snow ;  the 
last  miserable  resource  ;  those  gloomy  moments  of 


250  Friar  Hildebrand 's  Cross. 

thoroughly  vivid  consciousness  within  the  fast 
cooling  body  of  his  favourite  horse — all  are  before 
me.  Poor  Childe  of  Plymstoke,  what  a  glad 
awakening  after  such  a  dread  sleep  must  thine 
have  been  !  What  a  change  from  chilling  lone- 
liness and  misery  to  the  glory  and  brightness  of 
heaven,  the  company  of  angels,  and  the  presence 
of  God !  How  know  I  that  thy  Amy  and  your 
child  were  not  the  foremost  of  the  glad  throng 
to  meet  thee  ?  There  is  busy  work  for  my  pencil 
amongst  these  scenes.  There  must  be  the  Plym- 
stoke mansion,  with  its  owner  riding  forth  to  the 
hunt,  and  his  lady,  sweet  Amy,  on  the  terraced 
walk ;  there  must  be  the  hurried  return  of  Richard 
Childe  to  the  house  of  mourning  and  of  death ; 
there  must  be  the  rinding  of  his  frozen  body  many 
years  after,  close  by  Crockern  Tor,  and  the  monks 
crossing  Guile  Bridge  with  the  bier ;  and  the 
burial  in  the  Abbaye  church.  I  notice  that  Friar 
Henricus  speaks  of  Bevil  Hawley  at  the  mills  in 
his  time  ;  a  direct  ancestor  of  Walter  Hawley, 
the  husband  of  sweet  Cicely. 

October   8th,  1525. — This  day  I   proceeded  to 
the  Hospital  of  St.  George,  in  the  West-street  of 


Strange  News  from  Germany.       251 

the  town  of  Tavystoke,  to  shrive  the  soul  of  one  of 
its  inmates  about  to  pass  into  the  unknown  regions 
of  eternity.  This  was  a  poor,  homeless  old  man, 
the  last,  he  telleth  me,  of  his  once  numerous 
family.  He  was  full  of  strange  fears  about  the 
horrors  of  purgatory,  "  which,"  said  he,  "  I  richly 
deserve  to  feel,  having  been  a  bad  man  in  my 
time "  ;  whereon  he  counted  up  his  sins  so  fast, 
and  pulled  at  my  rosary  the  while,  that  he  hardly 
gave  me  space  to  recommend  him  to  the  Divine 
mercy,  through  Christ,  in  which  I  told  him  there 
was  more  hope  for  him  than  in  that  reckoning  of 
his  sins ;  yet  was  the  poor  departing  soul  won- 
drously  comforted  when  I  promised  him  a  goodly 
number  of  masses,  which  I  will  take  care  faithfully 
to  perform. 

This  hospital  was  built  in  the  reign  of  King 
Richard  II.,  above  a  hundred  years  ago,  by  o'ne 
of  the  Tremain  family,  and  likewise  endowed  by 
them  ;  and  the  doing  of  this  good  deed  has  in  no 
wise  tended  to  their  impoverishment ;  for  never, 
I  suppose,  did  they  flourish  more  in  these  parts 
than  at  this  day,  when  in  their  goodly  mansion 
of  Cullacombe  there  live  the  Squire  Thomas,  his 
'7 


252  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

wife  Philippa,  daughter  to  Roger  Grenvile,  of 
Stow,  together  with  their  eight  sons,  and  as  many 
fair  daughters ;  amongst  which  sons  are  to  be 
reckoned  two  pairs  of  twins  ;  namely,  Richard  and 
John,  and  Nicholas  and  Andrew,  which  pairs 
follow  next  unto  each  other  in  order  of  age.  And 
it  has  been  to  me  ever  a  comely  sight  to  behold 
the  kindly  squire  and  his  buxom  dame,  followed 
by  their  numerous  progeny  of  sixteen  souls,  enter 
in  a  procession  at  the  open  church  door,  and 
worship  God  together.  Being  of  pious  ancestry, 
they  have  likewise  the  privilege,  obtained  in  the 
year  1448  from  the  Bishop  of  Exon,  by,  I  think, 
our  squire's  great  grandfather,  of  worshipping  God 
in  their  own  house  at  Cullacombe,  which  private 
chapel  has  been  enriched  by  them  with  two  well 
painted  windows,  whereon  their  arms  are  impaled, 

» 

one  of  which  windows  has  been  made  at  Sidden- 
ham  Dammeral,  and  the  other  at  Kelly.  In 
which  chapel  I  have  been  called  upon  divers  times 
to  perform  mass,  at  which  there  has  always 
attended,  with  much  decorum,  the  members  of  the 
family,  together  with  all  the  servants,  both  upper 
and  lower,  so  that  of  itself  this  mansion  furnishes 


Strange  News  from  Germany.       253 

a   considerable   congregation   for  the   worship   of 
God. 

Often  of  late  I  have  wandered  from  our  Abbaye 
into  our  adjoining  parishes  and  oratories,  being 
minded  to  do  somewhat  in  the  work  whereunto 
our  blessed  Master  called  His  disciples  of  evangel- 
izing the  earth.  Amongst  the  rough  inhabitants 
of  the  forest  of  Dartmoor,  and  the  but  half-civil- 
ized countrymen  of  the  neighbourhood,  I  have 
striven  to  set  up  the  standard  of  the  cross,  and 
proclaim  the  evangel  of  Christ.  More  especially 
have  I  roamed,  being  on  foot  and  without  any 
guide,  to  Lydford,  a  town  of  considerable  size 
so  far  back  as  the  reign  of  Edward  the  Confessor, 
or  even  further ;  and  to  St.  Mary  Tavy,  and  St. 
Peter  Tavy,  each  of  which  has  a  good  church 
built  of  granite  stone  ;  and  where,  from  the  crosses 
that  stand  near  unto,  I  proclaimed  my  message 
to  the  listening  throng.  Then  afterwards  did  we 
enter  each  church,  where  I  celebrated  mass,  and 
comforted  the  pious  souls  of  many  good  Catholics 
by  the  rites  of  absolution  and  confession.  And 
for  these  matters,  and  for  these  services  above 
and  beyond  the  ordinary  weekly  mass,  I  have 


254  Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

obtained  a  special  order  from  my  abbot,  per- 
mitting  me  the  use  of  the  churches  for  prayer 
and  celebration  of  the  Host  Also  I  have  fre- 
quented the  oratory  at  Tavy  Town,  where  there 
come  worshippers  from  the  hamlet  of  White- 
church  ;  and  in  these  labours  my  soul  finds  much 
quiet  and  peace,  and  the  restlessness  and  weariness 
of  my  heart  are  somewhat  stilled  and  softened. 

November  iQth,  1525.  —  I  have  given  myself 
continuously  to  works  of  activity  rather  than  to 
hours  of  meditation  of  late,  because  I  find  the 
former  leave  me  the  less  time  for  selfish  thoughts 
and  conceits  that  have  my  own  trials  for  their 
subject.  I  still  find,  in  the  happy  home  of  Walter 
Hawley  and  Cicely,  relaxation  and  comfort  and 
joy.  And  dear  Cicely  herself  increases  in  sweet- 
ness and  purity  and  love.  No  nun  in  the  most 
strict  convent  can  be'  more  dedicated  to  her  God 
than  is  Cicely  in  the  midst  of  her  home,  in  which 
she  unfolds  day  by  day  the  tender  charities  of 
Christ 

Is  the  heretic,  Martin  Luther,  right  in  this  one 
particular,  that  we  do  most  heartily  honour  God 
by  glorifying  Him  in  sweet  ministrations  of  love 


Strange  News  from  Germany.       255 

to  each  other,  and  in  the  home  life  that  he  has 
ordained  ?  A  wild  tumult  has  swept  over  my 
soul,  which  sends  me  to  relieve  my  full  heart  in 
this  my  diary,  wherein  how  often  I  have  vented 
out  my  troubles,  that  otherwise  must  needs  have 
oppressed  me  still  more  sorely.  This  daring,  bold 
man  has  these  last  few  years  preached  this 
amongst  other  heresies,  that  there  is  no  manner 
of  grace  or  favour  in  the  eyes  of  God  in  the 
compulsory  celibacy  of  the  priests.  Here  have 
I  written  heresy,  and  yet  methinks — well,  shall 
I  not  dare  even  to  write  my  thoughts  in  this  my 
own  book,  which  is  so  particular  to  my  eyes 
alone  ?  Yes,  I  will  dare ;  I  do  believe  that  herein 
Martin  Luther  is  right ;  not  because  it  has  cost 
me  my  Cicely  to  believe  the  contrary ;  not  because 
I  have  sorely  suffered  in  the  flesh  regarding  this 
very  thing ;  but  because  I  have  sought — God 
knows  how  honestly  I  have  sought — by  the  open 
page  of  my  Bible,  for  the  proof  of  the  purity  or 
the  Church's  dogma  on  this  very  point ;  and  I 
have  found  that  there  was  no  forbiddance  of  mar- 
riage, neither  by  God's  Spirit  nor  in  His  revealed 
law,  to  the  priests  in  the  Old  Dispensation  ;  no, 


256  Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

nor  by  the  mouth  of  the  Holy  One,  when  on 
earth,  to  His  disciples  whom  He  sent  to  preach 
the  Gospel  to  every  creature.  But,  on  the  con- 
trary, St.  Peter,  the  great  head  of  our  Church 
next  to  the  Son  of  God  Himself,  was  a  married 
man,  and  St  Paul  also  writes  to  Timothy  with 
reprobation  of  those  who  should  forbid  others 
to  marry,  as  if  they  had  received  a  revelation 
unto  this  effect.  Now  all  these  things,  as  well  as 
the  natural  feelings  of  my  heart  to  Cicely,  which 
I  could  never  conceive  to  be  wrong,  save  on  ac- 
count of  those  vows  which  I  had  taken,  made  me 
the  more  attentively  give  heed  to  the  arguments 
of  this  strong-willed  heretic  on  this  particular ; 
for  I  do  conceive  it  to  be  a  gross  fault  of  our 
human  nature,  that  because  we  find  a  man  to  be 
guilty  of  wrong  in  some  one  matter,  we  do  there- 
fore judge  him  to  be  wrong  in  all,  which  test, 
if  we  ourselves  were  judged  thereby,  would  not 
leave  any  one  of  ui  much  chance  of  reformation 
or  improvement  However,  now  to  my  matter 
of  the  tidings  which  have  this  day  reached  and 
so  much  moved  me.  Martin  Luther  has  espoused 
openly,  in  full  day,  the  escaped  nun,  Katherine 


Strange  News  from  Germany.       257 

Von  Bora,  who  hath  already  for  some  time  re- 
nounced her  vows,  as  he  has  done  his,  and  has 
had  much  sympathy  with  him  in  his  daring  work 
against  our  Church.  Has  he  sinned  in  this  ?  The 
condemnation  of  the  whole  Church  is  upon  him ; 
many  of  our  monks  here  at  this  quiet  Abbaye, 
whose  lives,  without  being  wanting  in  Christian 
chanty,  I  may  dare  to  affirm  are  not  half  so  pure 
and  self-denying  as  his,  loudly  declaim  against 
his  scandalous  conduct  and  his  broken  vows.  Oh ! 
my  God,  do  Thou  enlighten  me  in  this  and  every 
other  matter,  for  it  seems  to  me  a  far  better  and 
more  righteous  thing  to  marry  a  woman  honestly 
than  to  act  treacherously  towards  her  ;  to  win  her 
confidence  in  the  Confessional,  and  then  spoil  her 
innocence  as  Martin  Luther  accuses  the  monks 
of  doing  ! — and  too  often,  as  Thou  knowest,  his 
accusation  is  just.  If  this  order  and  command  of 
the  Church,  this  yoke  that  is  so  hard  for  us  to 
bear,  that  all  the  religious  shall  be  celibates,  be 
a  man-made  ordinance,  oh!  God,  do  Thou  help 
Martin  Luther  in  this  .particular,  if  in  no  other, 
to  overthrow  and  annihilate  it!  What  have  I 
written  ?  I  tremble  and  am  aghast  at  my  own 


258  Friar  Hildebrand' s  Cross. 

boldness.  Is  there  something  infectious  in  the 
frank  courage  and  open-hearted  sincerity  of  this 
German  that  I  am  imbued  therewith,  as  I  think  of 
him  and  his  Katherine?  What  if  I  had  been  as 
bold  ?  What  if  I  had  leaped  this  fence  of  custom 
and  solemn  vows  and  told  Cicely  of  my  love  ;  told 
her  on  that  bright  May  morning  when  the  soft 
spring  bloom  was  on  the  trees  and  the  lark's  song 
in  the  sky ;  when  the  sweet  child  had  never  yet 
listened  to  the  whispers  of  love  or  heard  the  soft 
vows  of  a  true  heart  ?  What  if  I  had  won  her  for 
my  own?  What  if  I  had  gazed  into  the  blue 
mirror  of  her  eyes,  and  seen  my  happy  self  re- 
flected therein,  as  my  image  was  graven  upon  her 
heart,  and  felt  my  pulses  bound  the  while  with 
gratitude  to  the  good  Giver  of  so  much  happiness  ? 
The  thought  of  such  delirious  joy,  such  wild  de- 
light intoxicates  me  even  now.  Oh !  Cicely, 
alack-a-day,  the  cold  grey  of  the  November  sky, 
the  dreary  patter  of  the  November  rain,  and  the 
dull  murmur  of  the  Tavy  outside  my  cell,  seem  the 
fitting  accompaniments  of  my  life  without  thee; 
as  is  the  joyous  spring,  with  its  blue  sky,  and  its 
fleeting  clouds,  and  its  soft  gales,  of  what  my  life 


Strange  News  Jrom  Germany.       259 

would  have  been  with  thee.  My  heart  strives  so 
hard  to  be  satisfied  with  my  November-tinted  life, 
and  to  rejoice  honestly  in  the  flower- hued  lives  of 
others,  and  yet  all  the  while  I  know  there  is  a 
yearning,  that  cannot  be  repressed,  for  something 
of  the  glory  and  the  brightness  in  it,  that  I  once 
dreamed  of. 

So  have  I  written,  as  if  this  life  were  all  we  had  ; 
as  if  there  were  no  joys,  no  rainbow  hues,  purer 
and  fairer  than  aught  we  hope  for  here,  to  come 
to  the  soul  that  waits  and  longs  for  that  higher 
good  which  God  prepares.  My  soul,  content  thy- 
self;  accustom  thyself  unto  a  dull  life  on  earth, 
for  to  such  heaven  appears  all  the  more  intensely 
beautiful ;  the  difference  here  between  the  gay 
and  the  sorrowful  is  more  than  balanced  by  the 
tulness  of  joy  hereafter ;  grey  will  melt  into  gold  ; 
blackness  be  swallowed  up  of  intense  light,  -and 
every  sorrow  and  trial  that  thou  bearest  meekly 
and  patiently  here,  will  crown  thy  brow  with  a 
lustrous  jewel  when  thou  reachest  the  kingdom, 
and  dwellest  in  one  of  thy  Father's  "many 
mansions." 

At  this  moment  the  rain  hath  ceased,   and    a 


260  Friar  HUdebrand's  Cross. 

pale  gleam  of  wintry  sunshine  sweeps  into  my 
cell,  and  lights  up  my  Parian  marble  Christ  upon 
the  cross,  and  tinges  the  St.  Cecilia  picture  that 
is  the  very  impersonation  of  my  Cicely  in  her 
first  bloom  of  womanhood.  Dear  Lord,  how  dare 
I  murmur  thus,  cries  my  weak  soul,  grown 
stronger  by  the  contemplation  of  His  Divine  love, 
and  His  brave,  quiet  courage  in  all  His  sore  suffer- 
ings for  us — how  dare  I  murmur  when  Thou  hast 
borne  so  much,  and  I  so  little ;  when  Thy  life  was 
so  sad,  and  Thou  so  patient — and  mine  is  be- 
strewed with  joys  that  I  deserve  not?  Let  me 
but  fit  myself,  by  every  sorrow,  to  draw  near  and 
whisper  comfort  unto  grieved  hearts  ;  let  me  but 
love  Thee  more  in  my  every  trouble ;  approach 
closer  and  closer  unto  Thee,  and  I  shall  one  day 
be  able  to  rejoice  that  my  life  has  had  so  many 
dark  tints  in  its  sky  and  that  the  cloud  has  so 
often  gathered  over  its  sun. 


A     BIRTHDAY     HOLIDAY     AND     A 
ROYAL    MARRIAGE. 


CHAPTER   XVI11. 

A  BIRTHDAY  HOLIDAY  AND  A  ROYAL  MARRIAGE. 

> 

APRIL  2Oth,  1529. — I  have  never  mentioned  yet  in 
this  diary  Cicely's  second  child,  the  little  Cicely : 
a  fair  little  babe  she  is  with  blue  eyes,  like  her 
mother's ;  a  shy,  winsome  creature,  who  comes  to 
me  only  now  and  then,  and  often  hides  her  little 
face  away  from  me,  or  drolly  and  demurely  offers 
her  mouth  for  me  to  kiss ;  who  manifests  so  early 
in  her  career  the  prettinesses  of  the  woman  nature 
that  has  such  power  to  influence  men  for  good 
or  ill. 

Hildebrand  has  now  grown  to  be  a  fine  boy  of 
five — an  engaging  age,  for  he  prattles  to  me  abun- 
dantly of  all  he  has  seen  and  done. 

This  being  the  third  birthday  of  little  Cicely,  I 
went  to  the  Abbaye  mills  to  spend  great  part  of 
the  day,  and  enjoyed  much  peace  and  pleasure  in 
the  delight  of  the  little  ones.  There  was  abun- 


264          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

dance  of  romping  with  the  dear  boy  Hildebrand, 
the  little  maiden  Cicely,  and  a  large  party  of  their 
young  cousins,  in  which  I  took  a  very  active 
share ;  it  may  be  somewhat  undignified  in  a  grave 
Augustinian- — one  who  feels  himself  to  have  at- 
tained to  mature  age — to  scamper  wildly  across 
the  meadow,  golden  with  buttercups,  with  my 
little  favourites  upon  each  shoulder,  and  truly,  the 
solemn  old  cow,  which  chews  her  cud  leisurely 
therein,  looked  at  me  with  something  of  wonder  in 
her  calm  great  eyes,  as  if  reproaching  me  for  my 
idle  gaiety.  But  I  could  not  heed  her ;  I  could 
not  resist  the  sunshine  and  the  children's  laughter, 
and  the  spirit  of  fun  that  entered  into  me  this 
day,  and  I  tired  myself  with  play,  like  the  veriest 
school-boy  amongst  them.  And  then  I  threw 
myself  upon  the  golden  couch  Dame  Nature  had 
supplied  us  with,  all  spangled  with  silver  daisies, 
and  set  to  work  making  balls  for  the  babies  with 
the  fair  flowers,  the  while  the  little  ones  crowed 
and  cooed,  and  crawled  around  and  about  me,  and 
the  bigger  boys  and  girls  gathered  the  blossoms, 
singing  as  they  went  from  flower  to  flower. 

"  Harkee,  little   ones — hear  ye  aught?"  said  I, 


A  Birthday  and  Royal  Marriage.     265 

with  uplifted  hands,  and  my  half-finished  flower- 
balls  in  my  lap.  And  silence  fell  upon  us  all, 
saving  the  dear  babe  that  Cicely  carried  in  her 
kind  arms,  who  crowed  lustily,  as  if  we  waited  for 
his  voice. 

"  Hush,  pretty  one,"  she  whispered,  and  softly 
kissed  his  open  mouth  ;  and  then  came  the  glad 
.musical  note  of  the  cuckoo  out  upon  the  balmy 
air  of  spring,  and  the  children  fell  to  shouting 
with  joy,  and  then  to  mocking  him,  and  cries  of 
"  cuckoo  !  "  "  cuckoo  !  "  resounded  on  every  hand. 
And  then  we  crowned  little  Cicely  with  flowers, 
sweet  violets  and  daisies,  enwoven  with  some  blue 
ribbons,  and  so  off  again  to  more  play  and  fun  in 
the  broad  meadow,  till  the  dear  mother's  call  sum- 
moned us  to  the  birthday  feast.  Walter  Hawley 
took  his  little  Cicely  in  his  arms,  and  I  led  Hilde- 
brand,  and  one  after  another  the  merrie  youngsters 
trooped  in  after  us.  I  had  .carved  for  the  little 
birthday  Queen  a  rosary  and  cross  of  fine  holly 
wood,  which  was  hung  now  around  her  plump, 
white  little  neck,  for  she  was  very  proud  of  her 
new  treasure,  and  kissed  me  for  it,  with  such 
sweetness  and  pretty  artlcssness  as  repaid  me  a 


266  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

dozen  times  for  the  small  labour  I  was  at  in  the 
matter. 

January  2nd,  1530. — Public  matters  have  much 
engrossed  our  minds  of  late.  It  seems  difficult  to 
many,  rightly  to  judge  of  the  conduct  of  our  king, 
Henry  VIII.  He  has — so  say  his  enemies — resolved 
to  marry  one  Anna  Boleyn,  maid  of  honour  to  his 
queen,  Katherine,  and  so  seeks  occasion  to  divorce 
the  latter.  This  business  has  been  now  already 
a  long  time  in  hand.  King  Hal  does  not  believe 
that  he  had  any  right  to  have  wedded  Katherine, 
she  being  already  widow  of  his  dead  brother 
Arthur ;  but  the  Pope  takes  a  contrary  view,  Car- 
dinal Wolsey  seconding  him,  who  has  tried  various 
means,  but  all  to  no  purpose,  to  disaffect  the 
king's  mind  against  the  Lady  Anna  Boleyn.  There 
is  one  Thomas  Cranmer,  a  man  reputed  skilful  in 
judgment  and  learned  in  Church  law,  who  upholds 
the  king  in  this  matter,  and  has  therefore  been 
greatly  received  into  favour.  Now  how  all  this 
may  end,  and  what  concern  we  may  any  of  us 
have  in  the  ending,  it  seems  difficult  to  me  to 
foresee. 

December  i6th,  1530. — The  Cardinal  is  dead,  and 


A  Birthday  and  Royal  Marriage.   267 

a  most  grievous  death  did  he  die,  being  stripped 
of  his  honours  and  deserted  of  the  king,  all  which 
treatment  he  did  declare  before  his  close  resulted 
from  his  unwillingness  to  please  King  Hal  against 
his  conscience  in  the  matter  of  the  Lady  Anna 
Boleyn. 

The  manner  of  his  death  and  his  last  words 
deserve  remembrance  by  me,  lest  I  too  may  ever 
be  tempted  to  risk  any  portion  of  my  soul's  peace 
for  ever  so  much  of  temporal  prosperity.  Being 

cited  to  appear  at  London  on  a  charge  of  high 

/ 

treason,  his  health  failed  him  on  the  journey 
thither ;  and  he  took  shelter  at  the  Abbey  of 
Leicester,  and  retreated  to  the  bed  from  which 
he  never  more  should  rise ;  whereon,  a  little  be- 
fore he  expired,  he  uttered  these  sentences,  "  If  I 
had  served  God  as  diligently  as  I  have  done  the 
king,  He  would  not  have  given  me  over  in  my 
grey  hairs.  But  this  is  my  just  reward  that  I 
must  receive  for  not  regarding  my  service  to  God; 
but  only  to  satisfy  the  king's  pleasure." 

November  nth,  1533. — The  royal  marriage, 
which  has  cost  so  much  pains  and  so  many  heart- 
burnings has  been  solemnized.  Queen  Katherine 

18 


268  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

has  gone  into  retirement,  and  Anna  Boleyn  shares 
the  throne  of  King  Hal.  Cranmer  grows  daily  in 
power,  and  has  been  made  Archbishop  of  Canter- 
bury. Our  new  Abbot,  John  Penryn,  has  grave 
doubts  in  these  matters ;  the  king  throws  off,  as  it 
seems  carelessly,  the  power  of  the  Pope,  and  takes 
upon  himself  the  management  of  Church  matters, 
and  even  declares  his  own  authority  over  all 
Church  property,  as  well  the  monasteries  as  the 
churches.  This  day  I  visited,  as  has  been  my 
wont  these  many  years,  the  Leper  House  adjoin- 
ing our  oratory  of  St.  Mary  Magdalene,  to  comfort 
and  solace  the  poor  sufferers  therein.  This  has 
ever  seemed  to  me  a  blessed  work,  though  one 
that  tries  the  heart  and  makes  me  long  for  the 
power  to  say  to  these  afflicted  ones,  as  Christ  said 
of  old  unto  the  leper  who  besought  His  aid,  "I 
will,  be  thou  clean."  For  this  disease,  which  so 
much  abounds  amongst  us,  though  not  of  so 
deadly  and  infectious  a  nature  as  in  the  East, 
has  yet  somewhat  of  a  loathsome  and  horrible 
character,  and 'separates  here,  as  elsewhere,  a  man 
from  his  fellows  in  no  small  degree.  The  grati- 
tude of  these  poor  creatures  to  me  is  most  touch- 


A  Birthday  and  Royal  Marriage.    269 

ing  to  witness,  and  I  think  they  like  my  coming 
the  better  in  that  I  try  to  take  to  them  somewhat 
of  the  doings  of  the  great  world  outside  the 
hospital,  and  inform  myself  of  the  state  of  their 
families  and  friends  for  their  benefit,  as  well  as 
administer  the  consolations  of  religion.  In  this  I 
think  I  do  no  wrong,  for  it  is  God's  holy  will  that 
man  should  take  an  interest  in  all  worldly  as  well 
as  heavenly  matters,  and  it  endangers  our  soul's 
welfare  to  neglect  either,  only  he  must  strive  to 
set  things  in  their  places,  and  to  put  those  of  the 
greatest  magnitude  in  the  highest  room,  to  be  first 
attended  to. 

February  I2th,  1534. — It  is  as  well  to  confess  it 
to  myself.  My  own  mind  has  been  terribly  dis- 
quieted of  late.  I  had  not  realized  to  what  lengths 
my  sense  of  the  fairness  that  is  due  to  every  man, 
even  to  an  opponent,  had  led  me,  in  regard  to 
Martin  Luther,  until,  in  a  conversation  amongst 
the  rest  of  our  monks,  Brother  Nicholas  remarked 
to  me  in  an  undertone,  "  I  much  fear,  Friar  Hilde- 
brand,  that  thou  art  thyself  somewhat  attainted 
with  these  heresies.  I  do  well  remember  that 
thou  from  the  first  would'st  never  blame  that  rank 


270  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

apostate,  Martin  Luther,  as  he  deserved  to  be 
blamed,  and  in  an  especial  manner  for  his  scandal- 
ous conduct  in  marrying  that  poor,  weak,  mis- 
guided nun,  Katherine.  And  thou  hast  even 
dared  to  call  in  question  the  Holy  Father's 
wisdom  in  raising  money  for  his  many  noble 
purposes  in  Rome,  by  the  sale  of  indulgences.  I 
have  no  wish  to  blame  thee,  my  brother,  but  I 
much  fear  thou  wilt  have  torment  in  thy  own  soul 
for  thinking  and  speaking  evil  of  dignities  ;  and  I 
advise  thee  both  to  amend  thy  thoughts  and 
control  thy  tongue." 

Tormented  in  my  own  soul !  There  thou  art 
right,  Friar  Nicholas !  The  battle  has  begun. 
Why  cannot  I  be  content  to  accept  the  faith  of 
my  father  because  it  is  my  father's,  and  without 
any  questioning,  as  my  brethren  do  in  this  Ab- 
baye?  How  is  it  that  the  very  air  I  breathe 
seems  alive  and  laden  with  great  and  searching 
thoughts  and  doubts  and  new  ideas  which  I  can- 
not stifle?  Be  honest,  my  heart,  and  confess  at 
least  to  thyself  and  to  thy  God  I  would  not  stifle 
them  if  I  could.  It  is  as  if  a  fresh  breeze  had 
swept  across  the  German  Ocean  to  our  shores, 


A  Birthday  and  Royal  Marriage.    271 

and  stirred  our  very  souls.  Men  in  the  world  are 
thinking  and  moving.  Monks  in  the  monasteries 
are  thinking,  but  alas !  not  moving.  Oh !  for  the 
noble  courage  of  the  heretic  monk  !  Do  not  I 
believe,  even  as  he  believes,  that  the  human  soul 
cannot  be  held  in  leash  by  its  brother  man  ;  that 
the  priest  has  no  heavenly  right  to  control  the  life 
of  the  layman  ;  that  the  layman  is  as  close  to  God 
as  the  priest ;  and  Christ  the  only  Mediator  be- 
tween God  and  man  ?  What  do  I  fear  ?  Expul- 
sion from  this  fair  Abbaye,  the  dear  home  of  so 
many  momentous  years  ;  the  scorn  of  my  brother 
monks ;  the  opprobrious  names  of  heretic  and 
traitor  to  religion  ?  "I  do  dread  all  these.  I  shrink 
from  acting  in  open  opposition  to  all  those  I  love 
and  reverence,  from  being  the  despised  pervert, 
where  I  have  been,  I  may  say  it  with  all  humility, 
since  I  know  how  soon  the  titles  would  be 
changed,  the  "  honoured  teacher "  the  "  beloved 
dreamer." 

And  how  should  I  answer  it  to  my  own  con- 
science if  I  wilfully  break  the  vows  that  bind 
me,  and  which  I  took  upon  myself?  "He  that 
sweareth  to  his  own  hurt,  and  changeth  not" — 


272  Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

Doth  not  God's  blessing  rest  upon  that  man  ? 
And  yet,  dare  we  wilfully  blind  our  eyes  to  the 
golden  sunlight,  and  call  it  darkness  ?  Dare  we 
open  our  eyes  in  the  clouds,  and  say  there  is 
light  ? 


THE    HERMIT    OF    THE    TAVY. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  HERMIT  OF  THE    TA  VY. 

JULY  1 2th,  1534. — There  are  strange  rumours 
afloat.  It  is  said  the  king  desires  to  suppress  the 
monasteries,  but  this  I  cannot  believe  ;  the  very 
thought  of  it  has  sufficed  to  disturb  me  greatly. 
I  went,  after  vespers,  to  discourse  thereupon  with 
our  hermit  Paolo.  He  was  grave  and  somewhat 
unwilling,  as  it  appeared,  to  express  any  opinion. 
Whilst  we  talked,  I  asked  him  that  which  I  have 
so  long  desired — that  he  would  confide  to  me 
somewhat  of  his  history. 

"  My  history !"  quoth  he,  "ah  !  truly,  my  brother, 
there  is  but  little  in  my  history,  save  the  unruly 
doings  of  an  unruly  heart." 

"  Yet  would  I  fain  hear  it,  Father  Paolo,  so 
perchance  should  I  find  myself  strengthened  to 
bear  the  more  patiently  whatever  ills  may  have 
crossed  my  own  path." 


276  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

He  looked    keenly   at   me   with    his  dark  grey    ' 
eyes,    which  shine  all  the  more  large   and  plain 
from  the  great  leanness  of  his  flesh,  which    sore 
mortification  and  much  fasting  have  wrought. 

"Thou  shalt  know  it,  Friar  Hildebrand,"  saith 
he,  softly,  and  even  tenderly  ;  "  but  every  man 
hath  his  own  cross  to  bear  in  this  nether  world, 
and  for  each  of  us  who  desireth  to  tread  in  the 
footsteps  of  our  Master,  Christ,  there  is  a  via 
dolorosa  up  which  we  must  carry  it.  Now  is  it 
late.  Away,  brother,  away  to  thy  cell,  and  leave 
me  in  peace  unto  my  penance  and  my  slumber 
and  my  prayers.  Come  to  me  in  the  morning, 
and  I  will  recount  unto  thee  my  past." 

So  I  left  him  with  his  blessing,  and  shall  not 
fail  to  be  with  him  in  the  morning. 

July  1 3th,  1534. — A  sad  event  has  occurred  this 
day,  which  brings  me  so  soon  again  unto  this 
book.  I  went  to  have  my  desire  fulfilled,  of  know- 
ing the  history  of  our  hermit  Paolo,  as  he  pro- 
mised to  tell  it  to  me  this  morning.  So,  at  an  early 
hour,  being  immediately  after  matins,  I  crossed 
the  Abbaye  Bridge  with  this  intent,  and  proceeded 
along  the  south  bank  of  the  river,  unto  the  little 


The  Hermit  of  the   Tavy.  277 

chapel  of  St.  John,  whence,  having  there  said  my 
orisons  amongst  the  singing  of  the  wild  birds  in 
the  woods  outside,  I  proceeded  unto  the  Hermi- 
tage. The  old  man  lay  stretched  upon  his  bed  of 
ferns.  "  Friar  Paolo  ! "  I  called  softly,  as  I  stood 
at  the  entrance  of  the  cave  ;  but  he  did  not  answer 
me.  I  proceeded  within.  "  He  sleepeth  soundly," 
said  I  to  myself,  as  I  drew  near.  The  tangled 
beard,  the  matted  hair,  the  unwashed,  tattered 
garments  were  before  me  now,  but  the  haggard 
face  was  very  pale  ;  and  when  I  touched  the  lean 
hand  that  lay  on  his  rusty  gown,  it  startled  me — 
it  was  so  icy  cold.  The  morning  was  so  bright 
and  warm  without,  that  the  sunshine  even  pene- 
trated within  the  cave,  through  the  thick  bushes 
at  its  entrance ;  but  it  could  not  warm  the  form 
that  death  had  touched,  for  our  old  hermit  had 
indeed  laid  himself  down  to  die.  All  the  secrets 
of  his  life,  thought  I,  are  gone  with  him  into  the 
unknown  world  beyond  the  grave.  Poor  Paolo  ! 
I  have  blamed  thy  dirtiness,  have  censured  thy 
strangeness,  thy  hiding  of  thy  great  talents  in  the 
earth — but  how  know  I  that  I  could  judge  thee 
aright  ?  I  lifted  reverently  the  iron  cross  from 


278  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

his  breast,  and  thought  of  his  solemn  words  to  me 
last  evening,  touching  the  via  dolorosa ;  and  as  I 
was  about  to  fold  his  robe  decently  about  his 
stiffened  limbs,  I  caught  the  gleam  of  a  miniature 
frame  beneath  the  dead  man's  dress,  and,  opening 
it,  beheld  lying  there,  on  the  cold,  still  heart,  the 
beautiful  face  of  a  woman — not  a  woman  like  my 
St.  Cecilia  in  her  first  bloom,  but  a  woman  chas- 
tened, softened,  sweetened,  purified  by  a  sorrowful 
life,  with  just  a  sparkle  of  the  old  playfulness  of  her 
youth  still  dimpling  the  tender  lips,  and  gleaming 
out  of  the  gentle  eyes.  Had  I  come  sooner, 
Paolo,  should  I  have  known  all — thy  romance,  thy 
love,  thy  cross  ?  It  is  a  strange  thing  that  man 
meeteth  and  crosseth  his  fellow  on  life's  journey, 
and  transacteth  business,  and  worshippeth  and 
talketh  with  him,  and  all  the  while  hideth  his  soul 
and  his  heart  from  the  other's  gaze  and  knowledge. 
Poor  Paolo !  The  miniature  is  framed  in  gold  and 
pearls,  some  of  which  are  lost,  and  it  gleamed  in 
the  summer  sunshine.  But  that  sweet  woman, 
where  is  she  ?  what  is  her  history  ?  Did  she  love 
thee,  Paolo,  or  didst  thou  love  and  worship  her 
beauty  all  unknown  to  her  ?  And  have  you  met, 


The  Hermit  of  the   Tavy.          279 

ere  this,  in  the  eternity  which  is  before  every  one 
of  us  ?  Dear  Paolo,  all  thy  faults  are  forgotten  in 
the  light  this  miniature  flashes  upon  thy  solitary 
life.  Thou  too  hast  suffered  keenly ;  thou  too 
hast  borne  the  secret  cross  upon  thy  heart.  And 
what  matters  it  if,  when  I  die,  kind  hands  per- 
forming their  last  good  offices  for  me  shall  find  a 
little  curl  of  gold  upon  my  breast  that  matches 
Cicely's  hair  ?  Will  they  displace  it  ?  Will  they 
not  reverently,  as  I  do  now  with  this  fair  likeness, 
lay  it  back  again,  and  thank  God  that  for  one  more 
struggling,  loving  soul,  the  struggle  is  over,  and 
the  love  all  around  him,  his  new,  sweet  atmo- 
sphere. So,  Paolo,  with  one  more  glance  at  thy 
beloved  one,  one  more  look  at  the  tender,  saintly 
woman,  whose  memory  was  perchance  thy  guiding 
star  upon  the  earth,  I  lay  her  image  back  upon 
the  heart  that  once  throbbed  wildly  at  her  ap- 
proach, her  glance,  her  smile,  her  touch,  her  voice 
(as  I  do  even  now  at  Cicely's),  but  which  receiveth 
her  to-day  so  quietly,  with  not  one  pulse  of  emo- 
tion. I  cannot  do  more  for  thee,  poor  hermit, 
with  thy  unspoken  story  of  anguish,  thy  unwritten 
romance,  than  to  see  that  the  shroud  shall  not 


280          Frtar  Hildcbrand's  Cross. 

disturb  thy  love.  Hath  any  one  ever  dreamed  of 
the  life-histories  that  must  find  room  amongst 
eight  hundred  monks  ?  Hath  any  one  ever  con- 
ceived that  there  exist  so  much  of  poetry  and 
passion  beneath  the  black  robes  of  the  Augustin- 
ians  in  the  quiet  Devonshire  Abbaye  of  Tavy- 
stoke  ?  Stop — what  is  this  ?  A  name — her  name, 
in  small,  fair  characters  upon  the  back  :  a  woman's 
hand,  surely  a  woman's  hand  !  Paolo's  caligraphy 
was  broad,  bold,  gigantesque — not  this  fine,  deli- 
cate tracery.  And  in  English,  too  !  Methought  it 
was  an  English  face  upon  the  ivory. 

Egeline  Copplestone, 
1500. 

Sweet  Egeline !  I  am  as  curious  as  a  woman  to 
know  thy  history,  but  the  veil  of  death  hides  all 
from  my  view,  and  teaches  me  to  hide  also,  as 
much  as  may  be  from  other  eyes,  this,  that  acci- 
dent hath  revealed  to  me. 

July  20th,  1534. — As  for  a  brother  beloved,  I 
have  done  all  the  last  offices  for  poor  Paolo ;  which 
I  believe  he  would  have  so  well  liked  that  I  should 
do.  There  was  a  great  soul  in  this  poor  body 


The  Hermit  of  the   Tavy.          28 1 

that  we  have  to-day  committed  unto  the  'dust, 
with  all  the  funeral  pomp  of  our  Church.  Often 
have  I  sat,  as  I  have  sat  in  solitude  this  day,  for 
hours  on  the  soft  grass  outside  of  his  mean  abode, 
talking  with  him  of  the  mysteries  of  faith,  or 
listening  to  his  eloquent  and  burning  words.  He 
has  been  lowered  into  the  grave,  in  his  grave- 
clothes,  with  Egeline's  likeness  on  his  breast,  and 
the  rosary  and  iron  cross  outside  ;  and  none  know, 
save  myself,  of  the  hermit's  treasure  ;  unless  Ege- 
line,  indeed,  be  yet  alive.  And  if  she  be,  will 
she  discover  his  death  ?  And  does  she  know  that 
he  possessed  this  treasured  miniature  ?  What  an 
idle  questioner  I  have  become ;  it  would  be  more 
seemly,  perchance,  to  bury  the  whole  matter  in 
Paolo's  grave. 

October  8th,  1535. — How  soon  one  takes  the 
place  of  another  in  this  world,  and  of  how  little 
real  moment  it  is  to  most  of  us,  who  occupies  this 
or  that  position !  The  Hermitage  has  already 
had  these  many  months  another  occupant,  Friar 
Francisco,  a  dark,  haughty  Italian,  in  whose  face 
lurks  treachery,  and  with  whom  my  soul  has 
nought  in  common.  I  would  not  willingly  mis- 


282  Friar  Hildebrand* s  Cross. 

judge  any  man,  and  above  all  a  brother  of  the 
Abbaye,  but  he  does  unpleasantly  remind  me  of 
the  brigands  I  have  met  with  amongst  the  wilds 
of  the  Campagna,  and  in  the  fair  woods  of  Sicily. 
But  if  he  has  once  been  such  as  these,  yet  may  he 
have  truly  repented.  I  desire  not  to  judge  my 
fellow.  Stilt,  there  has  come  an  end  to  my  talks 
in  the  Hermitage ;  and  my  lazy  meditations  as  I 
lay  extended  on  the  soft,  short  turf  outside,  under 
the  waving  boughs  of  the  goodly  oak  tree,  with 
the  low  muttering  of  indulgent  old  Paolo  at  his 
prayers  within. 


A    MORNING    WALK. 
19 


CHAPTER    XX. 

A    MORNING    WALK. 

OCTOBER  I2th,  1535. — This  morning,  bright  and 
early,  I  went  to  the  Abbaye  Mills  for  my  com- 
panions in  my  walk,  and  'found  not  less  than  three, 
all  willing  and  glad  to  accompany  me.  These 
were  my  dear  boy  Hildebrand,  now  grown  into  a 
fine  lad  ;  his  sister  Cicely,  a  blooming,  merry  girl ; 
and  Walter,  aged  eight.  At  the  Abbaye  Mills 
there  is  no  lack  of  mirthful  faces  and  cheerful 
voices,  and  a  happier,  dearer  home  surely  there 
never  was  provided  for  children  to  flock  into. 

Cicely,  my  Cicely,  as  my  true  heart  ever  calls 
her,  is  as  an  angel  unto  these  little  ones ;  she 
reproves  but  seldom,  and  then  so  tenderly,  that 
it  seems  to  the  sorrow-stricken  child  his  greatest 
grief  that  he  hath  wounded  her  ;  and  spite  of  her 
six  goodly,  healthy  children,  and  all  the  household 
cares  a  family  so  large  involves — spite  too  of  the 
one  dear  crippled  little  one  who  lies  so  patiently 


286          Friar  Hildebrand^s  Cross. 

a  daily  martyr  to  God  upon  his  small  couch, 
and  shares  so  tenderly  in  his  mother's  thoughts 
and  acts — she  has  ever  a  ready  hand,  and  an 
open  hand  withal,  to  assist  the  poor  and  needy, 
to  comfort  the  sick,  and  an  attentive  ear  for  the 
business  cares  of  her  husband,  or  the  troubles  of  a 
friend.  It  becomes  me  to  wonder  how  one  so 
young,  so  fair,  has  so  much  wisdom  ;  and  ever  the 
answer  comes  to  my  heart,  that  she  who  meekly 
sits  at  Christ's  feet,  as  Cicely  does,  shall  be  taught 
of  Him. 

And  now  behold  me,  surrounded  with  my  three 
beloved  children,  off  into  the  favourite  old  haunt, 
Whitechurch  Down,  talking  busily  and  almost 
incessantly  by  the  way  ;  for  our  intercourse  is  so 
close  and  friendly,  that  we  have  always,  as  it 
appears,  more  to  say  to  each  other  than  can  well 
be  managed  in  a  given  time.  Cicely  clings  unto 
my  hand,  likewise  little  Walter,  while  Hildebrand 
sports  hither  and  thither  before  and  around  us, 
here  running  up  a  bank,  anon  climbing  a  tree,  but 
ever  ready  to  mingle  in  our  converse.  The  morn- 
ing is  as  beautiful  and  bright  as  an  autumn 
morning  can  be  :  the  air  sparkles  with  a  light  frost, 


A  Morning  Walk.  287 

the  flashing  dew-drops  dance  and  glitter  in  the 
sun,  the  turf  is  brown  and  crisp  beneath  our  tread, 
the  purple  heath  flowers  and  golden  furze  are  seen 
through  the  transparent,  silver,  shimmering  net- 
work of  the  frost,  the  black  spiders  hang  heavily 
in  their  webs  of  jewelled  gossamer,  the  larks  soar 
up  into  the  sunshine  and  the  blue  sky,  and  there 
is  not  a  cloud  to  be  seen ;  while  over  the  distant 
tors  of  Dartmoor  the  blue  fades  into  misty,  pearly 
whiteness,  that  is  as  dreamy  as  an  Eastern  enchant- 
ment. We  point  out  eagerly  to  each  other  these 
several  beauties,  and  then  there  is  a  loud  noise  in 
the  distance,  and  merry  shouts,  and  the  hunters 
come  riding  along  from  Holywell  House,  where 
dwells  the  squire,  John  Glanville,  and  as  they  ride 
one  of  them  sings,  in  loud,  musical  tones,  this 
hunting-song : — 

"  The  hunt  is  up  !  the  hunt  is  up  ! 

Be  merrie  while  you  may, 
For  Harry,  our  king,  hath  gone  huntinge. 
To  bring  the  deer  to  bay. 

u  The  horses  snort  to  be  at  the  sport, 

The  dogs  are  running  free  ; 
The  woods  rejoice  at  the  merrie  noise 
Of '  Hey  !  tantara  !  teevee  ! ' 


288          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

"  The  sun  is  glad  to  see  us  clad 

All  in  our  lustie  green, 
And  smiles  in  the  sky,  as  he  riseth  high. 
To  see  and  to  be  scene." 

While  all  join  in  the  hearty  chorus  : — 

"Awake,  all  men,  I  say  againe, 

Be  merrie  while  you  may, 
For  Harry,  our  king,  hath  gone  huntinge, 
To  bring  the  deer  to  bay."* 

There  are  a  goodly  threescore  of  hunters  at  the 
very  least,  surrounded  by  their  pack  of  hounds, 
the  animals  all  ready  and  eager  for  the  chase,  and 
hardly  restrained  from  running  by  their  master, 
who,  with  his  long  whip  in  his  hand,  watches  them, 
intent  upon  their  movements.  At  sight  of  which 
abundance  of  dogs,  Cicely  clings  to  me  somewhat 
affrighted  ;  but  the  boys  advance  boldly,  as  near 
as  may  be,  to  have  the  fuller  view  of  the  pretty 
animals.  And  as  we  stand  somewhat  aside  from 
the  road  they  come  upon,  to  let  them  pass,  I 
perceived  Squire  Glanville  himself  and  his  son 
mounted  upon  their  excellent  steeds,  also  Thomas 
Tremain,  the  Squire  of  Cullacombe,  and  no  less 
than  four  out  of  his  eight  sons  with  him  ;  all  of 

*  Old  hunting-song  of  the  i6th  century. 


A  Morning  Walk.  289 

whom  I  respectfully  salute  as  they  pass  me,  bid- 
ding my  children  do  the  like,  they  all  answering 
my  salutation  with  much  kindliness,  and  a  word 
or  two  of  pleasantry  for  the  young  folks.  And  no 
sooner  have  they  passed  us,  than  the  view  halloo 
is  given,  the  dogs  dash  off  at  full  speed  across  the 
heather,  and  there  are  cries  and  shouts  till  the 
blaze  of  red  and  green  coats  and  shining  spurs 
vanish  into  mere  specks  amid  the  gleams  of  bril- 
liant sunshine. 

Hildebrand  takes  up  the  lively  song  of  the 
hunters,  and  then  chases  his  brother  and  sister 
over  the  soft  turf  till  the  ruddy  glow  of  health 
upon  their  cheeks  deepens  into  a  brighter,  fresher 
carmine,  after  which  we  rest  ourselves,  while  I 
recount  unto  them  divers  tales  concerning  Italy, 
which  they  never  weary  of  listening  to,  and  of  that 
new  world  which  Christopher  Columbus  has  but 
recently  brought  to  man's  knowledge,  and  which 
still  remains  a  terra  incognita  to  so  many  of  our 
older  men  who  cannot  conceive  that  there  is  a  vast 
land  inhabited  beyond  the  seas. 

"  Fain  would  I  be  a  sailor,"  quoth  Hildebrand  ; 
"  fain  would  I  sail  out  from  Plymouth  Sound  in  a 


290          Friar  Hildebrand  s  Cross. 

big  ship,  and  come  back  and  tell  thee,  dear  Friar 
Hildebrand,  and  my  mother  and  Cicely  and 
Walter,  all  that  I  have  seen.  And  I  would  bring 
unto  poor  little  Arthur  all  the  prettiest  things  that 
I  could  find — feathers  and  gold  and  shells.  Think- 
est  thou  that  I  may  go  when  I  am  a  man,  dear 
friar  ?  "  The  "  Arthur  "  that  Hildebrand  speaks  of 
is  the  crippled  brother,  to  whom  each  member  of 
the  family  ever  shows  the  most  loving  tenderness, 
if  so  be  they  might  thus  somewhat  ease  his  sore 
pain. 

"Thou  wilt  perhaps  find  it  thy  duty  to  go, 
Hildebrand.  God  hath  appointed  that  there  be 
men  to  plough  the  sea  as  well  as  the  land ;  there 
be  vast  treasures  unguessed  of  yet  in  those  fair 
islands  of  the  Atlantic.  There  be  men  springing 
up  everywhere,  many  perchance  yet  in  their  in- 
fancy, who  must  do  the  work  that  God  wants  to 
have  done  in  those  far  regions,  who  must  plant  the 
cross  and  civilize  the  new  world  of  which  their 
ancestors  hardly  dreamed.  My  youth  has  passed, 
yet  have  I  at  times  the  longings,  the  wishes  of 
a  boy  for  new  discoveries,  and  the  exploring  of 
unknown  countries,  when  I  read  what  Columbus 


A  Morning  Walk.  291 

has  written,  and  Cabot,  and  the  sturdy  mariners 
that  fear  not  the  winds  nor  the  waves  when  God 
sends  them  forth.  Perhaps  thou,  my  Hildebrand, 
my  dear  namesake,  mayest  tread  instead  of  me 
the  lands  I  fain  would  see ;  mayest  exalt  the  cross 
where  I  would  willingly  have  done  it.  But  behold, 
my  Hildebrand,  how  the  sun  creeps  up  into  the 
sky  while  we  talk.  We  must  away,  or  thy  dear 
mother  will  have  reason  to  chide  me  that  I  keep 
her  children  from  their  school.  Off!  off!  away!" 
and  with  merry  laughter  I  send  the  young  ones 
before  me  back  to  the  town.  The  school  bell 
already  chimes  as  we  enter  it,  and  without  tarry- 
ing to  go  to  the  Abbaye,  I  proceed  thitherward  at 
once,  while  the  merry  young  ones  seek  their  home 
for  a  mouthful,  if  but  of  dry  bread  ;  the  keen 
bright  air  has  implanted  an  appetite  within  them, 
and  each  protests  his  great  hunger. 


THE    RECKLESS    DOINGS    OF 
,THE    KING. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

THE   RECKLESS   DOINGS   OF   THE   KING. 

SEPTEMBER  loth,  1536. — Truly  the  end  draws 
near.  The  unsparing  hand  of  the  king  tears 
down,  one  after  another,  those  ancient  establish- 
ments of  the  Church  which  he  once  delighted  to 
honour  ;  in  all  which  works  he  is  mightily  upheld 
and  encouraged  by  the  said  Thomas  Cranmer, 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  whom  I  have  men- 
tioned heretofore  in  this  diary.  And  with  some  of 
the  changes  which  this  great  dignitary  goes  about 
to  establish,  I  fear  not  to  express  myself  well 
pleased  ;  amongst  which  is  the  introduction  of  the 
Bible  into  all  the  churches  of  our  land,  a  reform 
which  it  behoves  us  to  make.  Hitherto  the 
Scriptures  have  been  a  sealed  book  to  almost  all 
the  laity,  which  is,  as  I  conceive,  a  most  grievous 
error;  for  how  shall  men  understand  the  nature  of 
the  God  whose  laws  they  are  to  obey,  and  the 

995 


296          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

character  of  the  Saviour  whose  example  they  are 
to  imitate,  if  the  written  revelation  of  the  Godhead 
is  kept  from  them  ?  Truly  our  Father  in  heaven 
mercifully  reveals  Himself  to  us  day  by  day  in  the 
outside  world ;  the  summer  glory  of  the  sun,  the 
beauty  of  the  earth,  the  pure  glistening  of  the 
winter  snows,  the  carolling  of  birds,  the  bursting  of 
spring  greenness,  the  gems  set  on  the  brow  of 
night,  yea,  even  the  whispering  of  the  rocky  river 
Tavy  that  I  listen  to  even  now  as  it  hastens  ever 
to  the  far-off  sea,  are  all  revelations  of  God. 

But  these  can  never  save  man's  soul.  They 
form  a  revelation  of  creation — not  a  revelation  of 
salvation.  But  Christ,  who  is  "the  Way,  the 
Truth,  and  the  Life,"  speaks  straight  to  the  heart 
of  the  man  who  reverently  opens  the  sacred 
pages  of  the  Bible,  wherein  the  whole  plan  of 
redemption  is  spread  out  visibly  in  the  brightest 
colours. 

Yet  here  in  our  Abbaye  I  hear  it  affirmed 
constantly  that  Cranmer  is  too  much  linked  in 
this  and  all  matters  to  those  new  heresies,  of 
which  Martin  Luther  may  be  considered  at  the 
helm,  to  have  any  real  desire  for  the  profit  and 


The  Reckless  doings  of  the  King.     297 

glory  of  the  Holy  Catholic  Church.  Our  monks 
are  complaining  grievously.  They  quite  piteously 
declare  that  though  they  could  more  quietly  and 
patiently  bear  the  ruin  that  is  to  come  upon 
us  if  we  monks  alone  were  to  be  the  sufferers, 
yet  when  they  reflect  upon  the  stoppage  that 
must  accrue  unto  learning,  the  ignorance  that 
will  then  obtain  the  control  of  matters,  as  well 
spiritual  as  temporal,  and  also  consider  the 
grievous  wrong  that  will  be  done  towards  the 
poor,  the  decrepit,  the  suffering,  and  the  aged, 
who  have  ever  so  largely  participated  in  the 
bounty  of  the  Abbaye,  coming  day  by  day,  as 
one  may  say,  to  receive  the  Divine  charity ; 
their  souls  are  oppressed  and  sore  grieved  ;  and 
out  of  their  weary  depths  they  cry,  "  Lord,  under- 
take for  us ! " 

For  they  do  most  vividly  picture  how  we, 
bereft  of  our  power  to  relieve  the  wants  of 
others,  must  be  found  sending  them  away  hungry, 
naked,  and  miserable,  from  our  gates,  and  closing 
the  door  upon  the  destitute,  while  we  open  it  to 
follow  them  ourselves  into  the  unknown,  untried 
ways  of  men. 


298          Friar  Htldebrand"  s  Cross. 

For  myself,  I  feel  that  a  greater  good  may  be 
over  this  apparent  evil ;  yet  never  till  now  that  the 
near  prospect  of  losing  the  delights  of  this  fair 
Abbaye  is  before  me,  did  I  estimate  highly  enough 
the  picturesque  beauty  of  this  lovely  vale,  the 
quietude  of  my  own  little  sanctuary,  which  has 
been  glorified  by  so  many  happy  dreams,  which 
has  been  the  scene  of  so  many  heart-searching 
conflicts  with  self;  and  whence  I  heard,  in  storm 
and  sunshine,  winter  and  summer,  the  everlasting 
plash  and  murmur  of  the  rocky  river.  Yester- 
eve  I  walked  with  my  dear  child  Hildebrand  to 
Crowndale,  to  the  farm  of  the  worthy  yeoman 
John  Drake,  with  whom  I  had  much  discourse 
upon  the  present  state  of  our  country,  for  he  is 
a  sage  and  patriarchal  man,  who  reminds  me  in 
many  particulars  of  the  quiet  philosopher  Isaac 
of  the  Bible,  loving  much  to  meditate  upon  God's 
presence  in  nature.  He  has  a  goodly  son,  like- 
wise named  John,  more  occupied,  as  it  seems, 
with  the  affairs  of  this  life,  but  of  an  honest, 
upright  bearing,  and  a  frank,  pleasant  counte- 
nance. His  second  son,  Francis,  has  he  sent  to 
college,  designing  him  for  a  priest,  for  he  per- 


The  Reckless  doings  of  the  King.     299 

ceived  in  him  much  aptitude  for  learning,  and 
in  this  I  have  done  my  part  to  persuade  him, 
for  the  lad  was  with  me  in  our  school  at  Tavy- 
stoke,  and  became  therein  a  diligent  scholar, 
and  no  small  favourite  with  his  teachers.  And 
yet  methinks  the  priest's  calling  is  about  to 
become  a  difficult  one  in  this  land,  the  reason 
whereof,  that  to-day  is  truth  called  truth,  and 
to-morrow  heresy,  through  the  great  fickleness 
of  the  king,  who  appears  to  treat  the  Catholic 
Church  and  the  so-called  Lutheran  heresies  some- 
what as  he  treats  his  wives — to-day  fully  satisfied 
with  one,  to-morrow  turning  to  another,  so  that 
it  would  seem  impossible  for  either  to  please 
him.  For  the  Lady  Anna  Boleyn,  whose  charms 
first  so  disturbed  the  king's  mind  as  to  cause 
his  religion  to  waver  for  her  sake,  has  met  this 
year  with  an  ignominious  death,  her  beauteous 
head  being  severed  from  her  fair  form  by  the 
cruel  axe,  while  upon  the  day  following  the  king 
married  another  wife,  one  Jane  Seymour ;  and 
since  then  no  woman,  surely,  who  desires  long 
life  would  choose  to  wed  King  Hal,  unless  she 

had    more   belief  in   the   power   of  her  own  wit 
20 


300          Friar  Hildebrand 's  Cross. 

and  beauty  than  a  sensible  woman  should  have. 
Hildebrand  and  I  returned  along  by  the  river, 
wherein  he  tried  his  skill  in  the  piscatorial  art, 
for  he  has  fashioned  for  himself,  with  some  ability, 
a  rod  and  line ;  and  though  I  never  indulge  in 
this  pastime,  seeing  but  little  pleasure  in  tortur- 
ing any  of  God's  creatures,  yet,  as  I  greatly  doubt 
that  he  will  catch  any  fish,  and  also  because  I 
have  no  wish  to  make  it  a  sin  in  his  eyes,  be- 
lieving that  fishes  are  designed  for  the  food  of 
man,  and  there  is  great  abundance  of  fine  trout 
in  this  pleasant  river  Tavy,  I  throw  myself  con- 
tentedly on  the  grass  beside  him,  under  the  great 
trees  that  dip  their  long  branches  into  the  cool 
water,  and  muse  and  dream  as  has  always  been 
a  favourite  occupation  of  mine  from  boyhood, 
until  now. 

I  have  thought  much  of  late  of  the  complaints 
of  my  brother  monks  ;  of  the  wailings  and  lamen- 
tations they  make  on  behalf  of  the  poor,  who 
now  get  a  daily  meal  from  the  surplus  meats 
in  our  refectory,  and  who,  they  say,  will  be  sure 
to  lack  sufficient  sustenance  when  this  is  denied 
them.  But  have  we  done  wisely  to  make  beggars 


The  Reckless  doings  of  the  King.     301 

of  our  poor  ?  Is  there  not  a  batter  spirit  to  be 
awakened  in  men's  minds  than  to  regard  religion 
but  as  an  agreeable  institution  for  the  feeding 
of  the  stomachs  of  the  lazy  ?  Is  it  wise  to 
make  men  and  women  perpetual  recipients  of 
bounty  themselves,  instead  of  teaching  them  to 
work,  that  they  may  become  the  more  blessed 
distributors  of  bounty  to  others  ?  Has  this 
charity  of  our  Abbaye,  about  which  we  vaunt  so 
proudly,  cost  us  individually  one  moment's  self- 
denial  ?  And  can  charity,  unless  it  be  the  beau- 
teous garb  of  honest  self-denial,  be  worth  any- 
thing in  the  sight  of  the  all-loving,  all-charitable 
God? 

I  have  been  especially  interested  of  late  to 
learn  that  the  German  "  Protestants,"  for  so  they 
call  the  followers  of  Luther  in  that  country, 
amongst  whom  are  several  princes  of  the  Empire 
and  men  of  authority,  have  determined  upon 
applying  the  revenues  of  monasteries,  and  other 
ecclesiastical  funds,  to  the  best  of  uses ;  namely, 
to  the  establishment  of  schools  and  hospitals  for 
both  sexes,  and  to  a  provision  for  the  maintenance 
of  ministers  over  the  several  Protestant  parishes. 


302          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

If  only  our   king   would   do   the   like   with   that 
which  comes  into  his  hands ! 

March  5th,  1537. — To-day  there  came  to  us  a 
monk  from  the  priory  of  Plympton,  who  brought 
solemn  and  painful  tidings.  The  king's  arbitrary 
power  is  put  in  force,  and  the  Prior  of  Plympton 
has  received  notice  to  be  ready  to  quit  and  render 
up  his  lands  and  belongings  within  three  months. 
Our  turn  will  soon  come  now.  Already  are  there 
spread  abroad  in  the  land  some  hundreds  of 
banished,  homeless  monks  and  nuns,  who  look 
in  vain  for  shelter  in  the  spots  endeared  to  them 
by  many  precious  memories.  Some  have  deter- 
mined to  proceed  to  Ireland,  and  find  refuge 
amongst  the  faithful  in  that  island  ;  others  repair 
to  Italy,  Spain,  and  France ;  while  yet  others 
turn  to  those  vast  countries,  newly  discovered, 
beyond  the  seas,  with  thoughts  of  spreading 
therein  the  honour  and  glory  of  our  Divine 
religion.  For  myself,  I  know  not  how  I  shall 
tear  myself  away  from  this  sweet  spot — how  I 
shall  separate  myself  wholly  from  the  pleasant 
life  at  the  Abbaye  Mills,  and  the  dear  faces  there 
— above  all,  the  one  beloved  countenance  that 


The  Reckless  doings  of  the  King.     303 

has  filled  my  heart  nigh  upon  twenty  years  with 
its  sweet  image,  and  with  which  all  my  history 
seems  to  be  enwoven.  Yet  I  would  fain  not  be 
burdensome  to  any  one, 

June  i8th,  1537. — Last  night,  after  vespers,  I 
repaired  to  my  oak  tree  beside  the  river,  and 
sat  myself  amongst  its  branches,  thinking,  think- 
ing till  my  poor  brain  grew  weary  of  thought, 
and  I  tried  to  listen  instead  to  the  voice  of  God 
that  spoke  in  the  soft  summer  breeze,  and  the 
deep  rounded  notes  of  the  beetles  that  droned 
about  or  went  buzzing  by  as  if  on  some  high 
mission  in  their  little  sphere.  I  stayed  there 
till  the  night  had  far  advanced ;  the  air  was 
warm  and  balmy,  and  it  refreshed  me  to  sit  thus. 
I  shall  not  much  longer  have  the  right,  and  each 
leaf  of  the  trees  grows  dearer  to  me  for  this 
thought.  How  have  I  sat  there  at  all  seasons 
of  mind,  and  of  body,  and  of  the  outside  world, 
with  the  storm  and  whirlwind  of  my  passion  for 
Cicely  sweeping  through  my  soul,  and  with  the 
tranquil  joy  of  trying  to  do  good  animating  my 
spirit!  When  the  fair  moon  shines  down  upon 
the  still  world,  and  when  each  floweret  has  basked 


304  Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

in  the  sun's  golden  light,  I  have  watched  the 
wondrous  beauties  of  both  night  and  day  from 
my  old  haunt  Who  will  come  after  us?  What 
changes  will  the  years  bring  with  them?  What 
new  thoughts,  what  new  discoveries  will  man 
make  that  shall  influence  this  Devonshire  valley 
and  these  old  Abbaye  lands  ?  Will  happy  lovers 
walk  beside  this  river  and  murmur  love  secrets 
to  each  other's  ears,  and  forget  in  their  own 
absorbing  joy  all  the  passions,  the  griefs,  the 
pleasures,  the  pursuits  in  which  we,  the  black- 
robed  Augustinians,  shared,  who  dwelt  here  so 
long  ago?  Will — but  why  should  I  question  thus 
that  unseen,  unknown  future  that  hath  no  power 
to  answer  me  ?  The  past  alone  revealeth  secrets, 
the  story  of  the  future  is  unwritten. 


MY    SOUL    AND    I. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

MY  SOUL  AND  I. 

JULY  i,  1537- — I  have  been  grieved  to-day  to 
hear  my  brother  monks  rejoicing  in  a  malicious 
manner  over  the  failing  health  of  Martin  Luther, 
for  it  seems  to  me  both  unkind  and  unchristian 
because  we  disagree  with  a  man  in  controversy 
that  we  should  wish  him  ill  in  his  private  life. 
While  attending  a  Protestant  assembly  at  Smal- 
kald,  in  Germany,  in  the  spring,  he  was,  they  say, 
taken  so  ill  as  to  believe  himself  dying,  and  was 
still  worse  after  he  had  set  out  for  his  home,  so 
that  he,  never  thinking  but  that  he  was  in  the 
article  of  death,  took  leave  of  all  his  relatives  and 
friends,  sending  messages  to  many.  But  he  has 
rallied  again,  and  stifl  struggles  bravely  for  what 
he  conceives  to  be  the  truth.  The  great  German 
reformer  is  noble  of  heart  and  firm  of  faith,  a 
man  to  be  admired  even  by  his  enemies.  For 

307 


308          Friar  Hildebrand' s  Cross. 

myself,  I  do  constantly  take  some  degree  of  pride 
in  the  fact  that  he  was  one  of  our  own  order, 
an  Augustinian  like  ourselves,  and  that  monastic 
walls  have  not  proved  so  thick  but  that  the  sun- 
light of  truth  has  at  first  pierced  them  to  reach 
the  soul  of  Martin  Luther,  and  is  now  irradiating 
the  world  from  the  influence  of  this  German  friar. 
For  no  one  can,  I  suppose,  deny  that  his  great 
dispute  with  His  Holiness  the  Pope  about  the 
mass  and  indulgences,  and  the  free  reading  of  the 
Scriptures,  has  led  to  greater  thought  and  know- 
ledge of  religion  itself  in  the  minds  of  men  than 
was  likely  otherwise.  For  there  had  been  much 
of  dull  stagnation  in  men's  minds,  and  careless- 
ness in  their  actions,  whether  they  pleased  God  or 
not ;  till  he,  shaking  the  world  to  its  centre  by  the 
bold  things  he  dared  to  write  and  speak,  made 
men  turn  inward  and  ask  themselves,  What  is 
Christianity,  apart  from  mass  and  confession  ; 
from  priest  and  from  church  ?  Is  it  verily,  as  this 
man  asserts,  a  matter  between  God  and  my  own 
soul,  in  which  none  other  can  safely  to  himself,  or 
profitably  for  me,  interfere  ? 

I  have  of  late  heard  much  and  read  more  of  the 


My  Sonl  and  /.  309 

writings  of  Martin  Luther  and  Philip  Melancthon, 
his  thoughtful  and  pious  friend.  Luther  declares 
that  he  teaches  no  new  thing,  but  only  the  doc- 
trine of  Christ  as  preached  fifteen  hundred  years 
ago  by  Himself  and  His  apostles.  Luther's  great 
desire  is  that  men  should  themselves  search  the 
Scriptures  for  the  warranty  of  his  propositions. 
Is  it  cowardly  of  me  to  wish  that  he  had  used  his 
giant  intellect  within  the  Church,  reforming  it, 
rather  than  outside  of  it,  while  he  washes  his 
hands  from  intercourse  with  what  he  conceives  to 
be  its  guilt  and  apostasy?  I  think  no  man  can 
deny  how  much  need  of  reform  there  was  and  is ; 
how  easily  the  arrows  of  reproof  found  entrance 
through  the  faulty  armour  of  the  Church,  how 
powerless  she  was  to  resist  the  satire  of  that  great 
satirist  Erasmus,  a  man  of  Dutch  parentage  and 
birth,  who  died  last  year  in  the  Swiss  canton  of 
Basle,  and  who,  though  a  Churchman  himself, 
and  for  years  the  Greek  Professor  at  our  English 
College  of  Cambridge,  left  behind  him  his  bitter 
words  to  vex  the  souls  of  all  who  desired  to  be 
at  ease  in  the  bosom  of  Mother  Church,  and  to 
supply  her  enemies  with  arguments.  Many  of  his 


3io          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

writings  were  penned  in  this  beloved  land,  for 
which  he  had  a  great  and  wise  affection,  and  even 
Luther  himself  with  all  his  force  and  truth,  Me- 
lancthon  with  all  his  gentle  reproofs,  never  wrote 
and  spoke  more  strongly  or  bitterly  or  openly 
than  did  Erasmus  against  the  Orders  of  our 
Church. 

Our  prior  and  many  of  our  monks  deem  it 
heresy  even  to  read  his  books.  But  I  could  never 
bear  to  deprive  myself  of  this  means  of  coming  at 
the  4"uth.  For  unless  we  read  the  writings  of  a 
man  with  whom  we  have  no  means  of  other  inter- 
course, how  shall  we  decide  aright  whether  he  be 
a  true  man  or  not  ? 

Of  our  monasteries,  he  says,  with  particular 
reference  to  that  in  which  he  studied — Stein,  near 
Tergou — that  they  are  "  destitute  of  learning  and 
of  sound  religion."  "  They  are  places  of  impiety," 
he  says  in  his  treatise,  "  De  Contemptu  Mundi," 
"  where  everything  is  done  to  which  a  depraved 
inclination  can  lead,  under  the  mask  of  religion. 
It  is  hardly  possible  for  any  one  to  keep  himself 
pure  and  unspotted." 

Now  I  have   no  wish  to  assert  so   sweeping  a 


My  Soul  and  I.  .311 

charge  against  this  quiet  and  peaceful  dwelling- 
place  of  Tavystoke  Abbaye  ;  yet  I  do  not,  and 
cannot,  pretend  that  our  daily  life  is  what  I  con- 
ceive it  should  be.  Our  monks,  for  the  most  part, 
do  not  by  any  means  deny  themselves  the  ordinary 
pleasures  of  life  ;  and  for  religious  men  to  spend 
their  time  day  after  day  in  hunting  and  hawking, 
feasting  and  playing  cards,  even  though  for  stakes 
of  very  small  amount,  is  surely  not  in  accordance 
with  the  spirit  of  our  vows.  Yet  may  charity — 
nay,  rather  common  honesty — forbid  that  I  should 
attempt  their  judgment,  who  find  myself  in  so 
many  matters  thoroughly  guilty  and  faulty. 

Since  I  have  completed  the  painted  windows 
of  our  Abbaye  church  and  of  the  refectory,  and 
finished  the  transcription  and  illumination  of  the 
legends,  in  both  of  which  I  took  so  much  and 
such  real  delight,  the  restlessness  of  an  unsatisfied 
and  too  idle  life  is  often  very  strong  upon  me.  I, 
therefore,  turn  with  satisfaction  from  unprofitable 
yearnings  and  longings  to  the  controversial  books 
which  have  so  much  interested  me  of  late.  I  feel 
that  there  is  much  sympathy,  at  least  of  taste, 
between  my  soul  and  that  of  Martin  Luther,  and 


312  Fnar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

this  in  spite  of  that  strength  and  courage  and 
earnestness  which  are  so  conspicuous  in  him,  and 
in  all  of  which  I  am,  alas !  so  lamentably  deficient. 
I  find  myself  leaning  upon  his  mind  in  a  strange 
degree,  and  tempted  to  accept  his  decisions  rather 
than  to  exercise  my  own  judgment  upon  weighty 
matters.  Yet  this  is  exactly  what  he  would  deem 
a  poor  proof  of  my  desire  to  know  the  truth. 

That  in  which  I  feel  myself  to  especially  re- 
semble him  is  our  mutual  delight  in  God's  visible 
creation :  our  fondness  amounting  almost  to  a 
passion  for  the  innocent  company  and  sweet 
society  of  little  children  ;  our  intense  dislike  of 
those  indulgences  to  sin  which  man  in  the  person 
of  His  Holiness  the  Pope  assumes  he  has  the 
power  to  grant ;  our  mistrust  of  relics ;  and  our 
disposition  to  place  Christ  alone  as  the  Mediator 
between  God  and  man.  In  all  my  eager  search- 
ing of  my  Bible  and  comparison  of  our  Church's 
doctrines  with  the  Scriptures,  in  this  particular  I 
cannot  discover  any  foundation  whatever  for  our 
worship  of  the  Holy  Virgin  even,  much  less  of  the 
saints,  to  whom,  though  they  were  once  erring, 
sinful  creatures  like  ourselves,  the  Church  gives  so 


My  Soul  and  I.  313 

much  specious  intercessory  authority  and  power. 
Most  blessed,  no  doubt,  was  Mary  amongst 
women  in  the  honour  conferred  upon  her  to 
become  the  mother  of  our  Lord  ;  but  since  she 
herself  confesses  with  loving  gratitude  and  be- 
coming humility  that  her  Son  is  her  Saviour,  why 
should  we  exalt  her,  the  redeemed  one,  to  an 
equality  with  her  Redeemer?  Surely  this  is  far 
from  her  mind,  and  we  do  dishonour  her  most 
when  we  deprive  her  of  the  position  she  delighted 
to  give  to  Him,  in  order  to  bestow  it  upon  her. 
The  words  of  Christ  give  no  authority  whatsoever 
to  the  worship  of  His  mother.  When  one  told 
Him,  "  Behold,  Thy  mother  and  Thy  brethren 
stand  without  desiring  to  speak  with  Thee,"  He 
asked,  "Who  is  My  mother,  and  who  are  My 
brethren?"  and  Himself  answered  the  question; 
for,  "stretching  forth  His  hand  towards  His 
disciples,"  He  said,  "  B'ehold,  My  mother  and  My 
brethren  !  For  whosoever  shall  do  the  will  of  My 
Father  who  is  in  heaven,  the  same  is  My  brother, 
and  sister,  and  mother." 

And    when,    during    one    of    Christ's    powerful 
discourses,  "  a   certain  woman  of  the  company " 


314          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

interrupted  Him  to  pronounce  a  special  benedic- 
tion upon  His  mother,  He  gently  answered  her, 
"  Yea,  rather  blessed  are  they  that  hear  the  Word 
of  God  and  keep  it,"  as  if  He  would  thus  prevent 
any  possibility  of  misunderstanding,  as  if  He 
would  guard  against  the  very  doctrine  our  Church 
maintains,  and  prevent  special  homage,  special 
reverence  being  paid  to  her. 1 

Believing  that  in  so  many  particulars  Martin 
Luther's  doctrines  are  indeed  in  accordance  with 
the  Scriptures,  am  I  justified  in  keeping  within 
my  own  breast  my  accord  with  them  ? 

All  the  habits  of  my  life  make  me  shrink  with 
pain  from  any  disavowal  of  my  former  convictions. 
And  if  all  who  are  in  favour  of  radical  reform 
leave  the  Church,  how  shall  such  reform  be  carried 
out?  Does  it  not  become  all  good  Catholics— 
and  especially  now  that  the  Church  is  daily  more 
and  more  dismembered  and  confused  in  this  land 
— to  hold  her  up  with  their  own  faithfulness,  to 
support  her  with  their  own  strength,  even  if  it  be 


1  I  have  to  acknowledge  my  indebtedness  to  a  sermon 
of  Bishop  Temple  for  this  suggestion. — M.  A.  P. 


My  Soul  and  /.  315 

but  little  that  is  granted  to  them  ?  Were  she  at 
the  height  of  power  and  prosperity  I  could  think, 
more  unmoved,  more  calmly,  of  quitting  her 
bosom  for  ever.  Being,  as  she  is,  in  adversity,  I 
shrink  from  anything  that  may  lead  to  such  a 
conclusion  on  my  part. 

Yet,  were  I  one  of  Martin  Luther's  Protestants, 
I  should  feel  that  I  breathed  a  freer,  purer  air. 
And  if  I  were  outside  the  pale  of  our  Church,  and 
unfettered  by  the  vows  of  our  Order,  assuredly  I 
would  never,  knowing  what  I  know  of  both,  seek 
to  re-enter  either. 

Oh,  my  soul,  be  brave,  shrink  not  from  the  con- 
templation of  the  many  difficulties  which  surround 
and  puzzle  thee  ;  seek  for  Divine  light  and  grace, 
light  to  guide  thee,  grace  to  acknowledge  thy 
belief,  even  though  this  should  bring  thee  the 
obloquy  and  scorn  of  thy  fellows.  Thinking  thus, 
my  mind  followed  very  closely  the  trials  of  Moses 
and  the  wanderings  of  the  Israelites  when  they 
started  from  Egypt,  their  house  of  bondage,  a 
poor  oppressed  race,  to  the  land  great  for  them 
with  a  future  of  triumph  and  prosperity,  and  my 
quill,  though  it  is  long  since  I  have  attempted 


21 


316  Friar  Hildeb rand's  Cross. 

verses,  traversed  my  paper  with  these  lines,  rathci 
a  paraphrase  than  an  original. 


A  PILLAR  OF  CLOUD  BY  DAY  AND  A  PILLAR 
OF  FIRE  BY  NIGHT. 

In  the  bright  days  when  pleasure  smiles  around  us, 

And  our  sweet  dreams  are  ushered  into  light, 
Lest  the  too  dazzling  lustre  should  confound  us, 
Be  Thou  our  night  ! 

In  the  dark  days  when  Hope  seems  dead  within  us, 

And  our  souls  battle  with  the  clouds  of  night, 
When  Satan  and  his  hosts  draw  near  to  win  us, 
Be  Thou  our  light ! 


CICELY'S  OFFER. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

CICELY'S  OFFER. 

JULY  14,  1538. — I  have  been  moved  this  day  to 
my  very  heart's  depths.  The  long-expected  news 
has  arrived  this  morning,  that  early  in  the  ap- 
proaching year  our  Abbot,  John  Penryn,  must  give 
up  into  the  King's  hands  his  lands,  his  Abbaye, 
his  church,  and  every  adjunct  of  both.  In  the 
afternoon  I  visited  the  Abbaye  Mills  to  acquaint 
my  dear  friends  Walter  Hawley  and  Cicely,  in 
privacy,  with  this  hard  mandate. 

"  And  what  does  thou  purpose  to  do,  dear  Friar 
Hildebrand?"  questioned  Cicely,  turning  her  kind 
eyes  upon  me  where  I  sat,  and  gently  rocking  the 
cradle  of  her  sleeping  babe  the  while  with  one 
foot,  "thou  wilt  not  leave  us,  dear  friar  ?" 

"  I  know  not,"  said  I,  moved  more  than  I  might 
manifest  by  this  her  tenderness  towards  me. 

"  There  is  always  a  home  for  thee  at  the  Abbaye 

319 


320          Friar  Hildebraud*s  Cross. 

Mills,  Friar  Hildebrand,"  Walter  Hawley  said 
kindly.  "  Whatever  King  Hal  does  with  his 
abbots  and  monks,  his  subjects  must  needs  have 
their  corn  ground  ;  I  have  no  fear  that  my  wheel 
will  stand  idle  for  any  change." 

Walter  Hawley  is  right ;  a  community  needs 
not  abbots  and  monks  as  it  needs  millers  and 
flour. 

"  Yes,  thou  wilt  promise  us  to  stay  with  us,  dear 
F'riar  Hildebrand,"  pleaded  .Cicely,  with  tears  in 
her  eyes ;  "  God  knoweth  how  I  mourn  thy 
changed  estate,  dear  friar.  How  cruel  it  seems 
this  rash  law,  that  turns  out  so  many  good  and 
holy  men  and  women  houseless  into  the  streets 
and  lanes,  to  seek  such  shelter  as  they  may 
amongst  those  who  love  the  Church  and  her  ser- 
vants better  than  the  King  does.  And  how  can  a 
King  who  has  no  heart  in  him  be  expected  to  care 
for  the  sufferings  of  others  ?  "  she  added,  with  her 
old  impetuous  speech.  "  How  can  a  man  who  has 
no  love  even  for  the  mother  of  his  children  be  ex- 
pected to  remember  the  servants  of  God  and  the 
poor  souls  whom  these  have  taken  such  care  to 
support?  Dear  Friar  Hildebrand,  what  wilt  thou 


Cicely s  Offer.  321 

do,  and  what  will  all  of  you  do  with  the  crowd 
that  now  comes  daily  to  the  refectory  and  kitchens 
for  food  and  drink,  and  oftentimes  even  to  the 
cloisters  for  clothes  ?  Oh !  I  much  fear  me  there 
will  be  many  an  aged  one  pushed  into  the  grave, 
many  a  weakly  one  made  a  corpse,  many  a  widow 
and  orphan  obliged  to  shed  bitter  tears  when  the 
Abbaye  gates  are  closed  against  them." 

"  Dear  Cicely,  prithee  torture  me  not,"  said  I, 
wholly  moved  even  to  tears  and  heavy  sobs  by 
these  her  lamentable  words,  and  knowing  only  too 
well  how  much  truth  there  was  in  what  she  spake 
of  as  about  to  come  to  pass. 

"  My  dear  Friar  Hildebrand,  I  would  rather  seek 
to  comfort  thee  than  add  to  thy  sorrow,"  said  she 
kindly,  "  and  at  least  thou  wilt  promise  us  to  come 
to  the  shelter  of  our  home  in  the  first  pitiless  out- 
burst of  the  storm." 

"  Nay,  rather,"  said  Walter  Hawley,  "  reveal  thy 
whole  mind  to  Friar  Hildebrand,  dear  wife,  and 
let  the  matter  rest  with  him,  to  decide  as  seem* 
best  to  him." 

"  I  bethought  me,"  said  Cicely  then,  speaking 
with  some  timidity,  "  of  our  dear  boys  and  their 


322          Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

schooling,  and  I  hope,  dear  Friar  Hildebrand,  thou 
mayst  be  of  the  mind  to  stay  with  us,  and  com- 
plete what  thou  thyself  hast  begun  in  them.  Our 
house  is  large,  and  there  is  abundance  of  rooms  in 
it  ;  thou  shalt  have  thy  oratory  and  cell,  dear  friar, 
and  what  thou  wilt,  together  with  a  room  wherein 
to  instruct  our  children." 

My  heart  leapt  joyously  within  me,  and  then  a 
cold  chill  struck  terror  through  my  veins,  as  I 
learned  by  this  strong  emotion  how  weak  I  still 
was  in  her  dear  presence.  Could  I  live  thus  as  she 
proposed,  with  any  peace  to  my  own  soul  ?  This 
question  made  me  hesitate  before  I  answered  her. 
"  I  trow  not,"  said  conscience  ;  and  then  I  thanked 
both  her  and  Walter  Hawley  with  all  the  words 
which  friendship  suggested,  and  yet  still  left  it  a 
matter  of  grave  doubt  as  to  what  I  might  find  it 
right  to  decide. 

August  1 2th,  1539. — Our  departure  has  been 
delayed  a  few  months,  but  I  write  for  the  last  time 
to-night  in  this  cell  of  the  dear  old  Tavystoke 
Abbaye ;  here,  where  for  twenty  years  I  have 
found  my  home,  I  may  not  any  longer  dwell ;  the 
trees,  the  river,  the  Abbot's  garden  with  its  flowers 


Cicely  s  Offer.  323 

are  to  me  fast  sinking  away  into  the  past,  into 
that  dreamland  that  we  look  back  upon  with  so 
much  of  tenderness  and  regret  Yes,  albeit  we 
have  known  therein  many  bitter  trials,  have  passed 
through  many  a  sore  experience,  the  home  of 
twenty  years  endears  itself  to  us  strangely. 

The  King  has  granted  John  Penryn,  our  Abbot, 
a  pension  of  ^100  a  year,  and  to  nineteen  of  the 
officers  amongst  us  various  smaller  sums  which 
will  remove  them  from  want  or  dependence  ;  but  I 
could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  claim  that  which 
belonged  to  me  in  this  apportionment  as  librarian 
of  the  Abbaye,  for  it  seemed  to  me  like  taking  a 
gift  from  the  robber  who  has  deprived  you  of 
means,  and  then  offers  you  that  which  is  not  his 
to  give. 

For  the  rest  of  us  there  is  no  provision  whatso- 
ever made  by  the  greedy  monarch,  who  grasps 
this  rich  Abbaye,  as  he  has  already  grasped  so 
many  others,  to  his  own  aggrandizement 

I  feel  sad  and  discontented  this  glorious  summer 
eve,  my  heart  rebels  against  my  lot,  against  this 
chafing  of  my  self-will,  as  in  the  old  days  it  re- 
belled for  as  bitter,  though  a  more  personal  trial 


324  Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

The  cross  weighs  heavily  to-night,  and  this  hot  air, 
which  steals  through  my  chamber,  rather  enervates 
than  rouses  me.  Am  I  then  no  nearer  heavenly 
self-denial  than  I  was  in  the  years  long  gone  by, 
when  I  yearned  so  wildly,  so  passionately  for  sweet 
Cicely?  Have  all  the  days  of  penance,  of  mortifica- 
tion, of  fasting,  of  solitude,  of  earnest  work,  and  the 
later  hours  of  rigid  self-examination  and  careful 
study  that  I  have  known  since  then,  left  my  spirit 
still  unpurged,  unpurified  ?  I  much  fear  me  it  is  so; 
I  cannot  see  that  my  soul  is  any  fitter  for  heaven 
than  it  was  on  the  May  morning  when  I  twined 
my  darling's  flower-wreath,  and  wove  her  chaplet. 
St.  C^cile  looks  at  me  tenderly  with  her  young 
fresh  beauty  from  the  wall  of  my  cell,  and  the  red 
evening  light  glows  upon  the  Parian  marble  Christ 
upon  the  Cross.  His  generous  Holiness  Leo,  who 
gave  it  me,  is  dead  long  ago  ;  many  a  successor 
has,  since  he  died,  filled  the  Papal  chair.  The 
world  is  full  of  change — can  I  expect  it  to  pause 
in  its  course  for  one  black  monk  ?  Can  I  expect 
to  lift  the  cross  from  my  heart  till  the  iron  cross  of 
my  Order  rests  on  a  still  form,  and  death  is  to  me 
the  gate  of  life  ?  To-morrow  I  go  to  the  Hawleys, 


Cicely s  Offer.  325 

and  afterwards — whither?  The  islands  beyond 
the  sea  attract  me  strangely.  I  dare  not  rest  ; 
I  dare  not  take  up  my  permanent  abode  at  the 
Abbaye  Mills  ;  some  careless  word,  some  eager 
utterance,  might  suddenly  reveal  the  secret  of  my 
life  to  Walter  Hawley  or  Cicely,  and  thus  the 
peace  and  joy  of  that  fair,  sunny  home  might  be 
endangered.  I  will  away.  Her  life,  her  love,  her 
purity,  her  sweetness,  can  never  cease  to  influence 
me  as  they  have  done  all  these  years.  Her  prayers 
will  follow  me  ;  daily  she  will  commend  me  to  the 
Divine  Lord ;  she  will  teach  her  children  to  think 
tenderly  of  me.  Yes,  that  is  all  I  ask  of  her.  I 
will  not  linger  near  her,  nor  near  to  this  beloved 
old  Abbaye,  whose  most  silent  nook  is  crowded 
with  the  thought  of  her.  I  will  away  out  into  the 
wild,  uncivilized  regions  of  the  West,  where  I  may 
speak  to  ignorant  savages  of  the  great  work  of 
Christ. 

I  need  not  teach  nor  preach  to  them  any  other 
doctrine  than  "that  of  Christ  and  Him  crucified." 
Gently,  kindly,  I  will  strive  to  enter  into  an  un- 
derstanding and  appreciation  of  their  untutored 
lives,  and  bring  the  sweetest,  simplest  blessings  of 


326  Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

Christianity  to  them  ;  not  the  differences  between 
our  Church  and  the  Protestants,  but  the  difference 
between  the  fear  with  which  the  Pagan  nations 
approach  the  Great  Spirit,  and  the  childlike  trust 
and  reverence  which  it  is  the  Christian's  privilege 

to  feel. 

»  *  *  *  « 

I  take  my  pen  again  after  I  had  laid  it  down 
to  transcribe  in  this  diary  a  page  from  the  great 
German  reformer's  writings,  which  I  have  but  just 
read,  and  which  strengthens  me  not  a  little  in 
thought  of  the  sad  to-morrow.  Oh  !  that  my  faith 
were  but  as  grand  as  his  ! 

"  I  looked  out  at  my  window,  and  saw  two  pro- 
digies. I  beheld  the  glittering  stars,  and  all  the 
glorious  vault  of  Heaven  :  I  looked  around  for 
the  pillars  by  which  it  was  upheld  ;  but  I  could 
discover  none.  Yet  it  remained  firm  and  secure 
The  same  unseen  hand  which  had  formed  sus- 
tained it  still.  Yet  numbers  anxiously  search  on 
all  sides  for  its  supports  :  could  they  feel  them 
with  their  hands  they  might  then  be  at  ease  ;  but, 
as  this  is  impossible,  they  live  in  constant  disquiet, 
lest  the  heavens  should  fall  down  upon  their  heads  ! 


Cicely  s  Offer.  327 

I  beheld  again,  and  lo,  thick  clouds  of  water,  like 
a  mighty  ocean,  which  I  saw  nothing  to  contain, 
nothing  to  hold  up,  rolled  above  our  heads.  Yet 
they  descended  not  upon  us  ;  but,  after  presenting 
a  threatening  aspect  for  a  little  time,  they  passed 
away,  and  a  brilliant  rainbow  succeeded  them. 
This  was  our  protection  (Genesis  ix.).  Yet  it 
appeared  frail  and  evanescent ;  and,  though  it  has 
ever  hitherto  proved  availing,  still  numbers  think 
more  of  the  thick  and  dark  mass  of  waters  than 
of  the  slender  fleeting  arch  of  light.  They  want 
to  have  sensible  proof  of  its  sufficiency  ;  and  be- 
cause they  cannot  obtain  that,  they  live  in  dread 
of  a  second  deluge."  * 

*  "  Luther  and  the  Reformation,"  by  Rev.  John  Scott,  pp. 


TURNING    WESTWARD. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

TURNING   WESTWARD. 

ABBAYE  MILLS,  August  i3th,  1539.— Who  shall 
describe  it  all  ?  what  tongue  has  words  enough, 
what  pen  diligence  enough  to  notify  the  tears,  the 
sobs,  the  distressful  plaints  that  surrounded  us  this 
morning,  when  we  quitted,  in  a  long  sorrowful 
procession,  the  Abbaye  that  has  sheltered  the 
brethren  of  our  Order  for  no  less  a  time  than  near 
600  years.  The  whole  people  as  it  would  seem  of 
this  goodly  town  assembled  to  bewail  our  depar- 
ture from  amongst  them,  and  more  especially  the 
aged,  the  infirm,  the  widows,  the  orphans,  the 
lepers,  who  had  shared  our  bounty.  Alas !  alas ! 
Even  the  very  birds  that  were  wont  to  take  of  our 
crumbs  in  the  winter  season  seemed  to  me,  as  I 
looked  and  listened  from  the  window  of  my  cell, 
to  have  a  sad  sweetness  in  their  songs,  and  rather 
woke  the  echoes  of  the  valley  with  mournful  notes 

22  331 


332  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

than  with  anything  of  jubilant  sound  ;  the  river, 
low  in  its  bed  from  the  long  drought  of  summer, 
murmured  to  us  a  sad  farewell,  and  my  own  heart 
felt  very  sorrowful  when  the  pretty  little  children 
of  the  good  town  ran  along  beside  me,  sobbing 
and  stretching  out  their  fat  little  hands,  and  cry- 
ing, "  Alack-a-day ;  good  friars,  we  do  not  want 
you  to  leave  us ! "  while  the  older  folk  muttered 
against  the  king  between  their  teeth,  and  some  of 
the  bolder  ones  cursed  him  aloud  as  the  proud 
spoiler  of  God's  house.  Thank  God,  there  were, 
I  think,  none  who  rejoiced  at  our  being  driven 
forth.  Even  those  who  have  imbibed  the  doctrines 
of  the  Reformation,  and  know  that  we  are  indeed 
somewhat  useless  cumberers  of  the  ground  ;  as 
well  as  those  who  see  a  sinner  beneath  every  cowl 
and  hypocrisy  under  every  iron  cross,  and  believe 
that  our  suppression  is  necessary,  and  means  the 
advancement  of  this  our  native  land,  which  I  can- 
not hide  from  myself  is  indeed  a  truth,  were  yet 
too  modest  at  this  moment  to  glory  in  our  dis- 
grace. The  first  thing  after  matins  we  met  in  the 
abbot's  hall,  where  John  Penryn  did,  with  much 
kindliness,  and  many  touching  words,  address  him- 


Turning  Westward.  333 

self  unto  us,  praying  us  to  believe  that  God  would 
not  forget  our  labours  of  love  in  this  Abbaye,  nor 
the  many  solemn  hours  wherein  the  souls  of  men 
had  here  communed  with  the  Lord  God  Almighty; 
calling  upon  us  to  remember  the  patience  and 
endurance  of  our  Great  Master  Christ,  and  to  be 
willing  to  "count  all  things  but  dross"  for  His 
sake.  Then  did  we  affectionately  embrace  our 
abbot,  and  each  other,  more  especially  those  be- 
tween whom  a  dearer  friendship  prevailed. 

So,  after  our  breakfast  in  the  refectory,  which 
seemed  rather  to  choke  than  to  nourish  me,  we 
met  again  in  the  same  place,  and  thence  passed 
out  at  the  Abbaye  gate,  as  I  have  already  described, 
into  the  wide  world  beyond,  which  has  now  for 
us  no  home,  no  resting-place,  but  that  which  the 
charitable  offer  unto  us. 

Now  I,  being  come  to  the  Abbaye  Mills,  find  all 
arranged  in  order  for  me  by  kind  Cicely,  whose 
tenderness  surpasses  what  I  have  ever  known  in 
her,  for  she  welcomed  me  with  tears  and  smiles, 
and  set  the  little  ones  around  me,  that  they  by 
their  artless  prattle,  and  pretty  innocent  caresses, 
may  make  me  somewhat  forget  my  misery.  Yet 


334  Friar  Hilde brand's  Cross. 

I  cannot  stay  here,  this  my  heart  tells  me  every 
hour,  as  I  listen  to  her  pleasant  voice,  and  watch 
her  sweet  face,  and  note  each  kindly  act  of  her 
dear  hands.  Only  in  the  great  world  far  away  can 
my  soul  find  peace,  or  my  life  employment  The 
decree  which  has  banished  me  from  the  Abbaye 
banishes  me  likewise  from  Cicely,  from  England. 

April  2Oth,  1540. — To-morrow  I  set  out  for  Ply- 
mouth, and  then  sail  for  Spain,  and  afterwards  to 
Mexico,  a  land  of  much  beauty  and  fertility,  opened 
up  these  past  few  years  to  the  religion  of  the  Cross 
by  the  great  Spanish  commander,  Fernando  Cortez. 
Here  may  I,  by  example,  by  precept,  by  tender- 
ness, humanity,  and  gentleness,  win  the  souls  of 
the  soft-natured,  kindly  Indians  to  Christ.  Hilde- 
brand  Hawley  accompanies  me.  The  old  longings 
in  the  boy's  heart  have  ripened  to  intense  passion- 
ate desires  ;  he  has  prayed  his  parents  to  grant  his 
wishes,  and  at  length  his  mother  has  given  him  to 
me,  with  many  anxious  fears,  many  tender  charges, 
much  sorrow,  but,  nevertheless,  she  gives  him. 
His  father  entrusts  him  to  me  with  less  fears,  but 
plenty  of  wise  advice  to  the  boy.  "  Take  heed 
how  thou  workest,  Hildebrand,"  saith  he ;  "  silver 


Turning  Westivard.  335 

and  gold  are  to  be  had  in  Mexico,  but  these  are 
not  worth  a  man's  health,  neither  his  good  name  ; 
if  thou  sacrificest  either  to  obtain  them,  thou  art 
a  loser,  not  a  gainer.  Hold  fast,  my  son,  to  the 
Christian  faith,  the  faith  of  thy  parents  and  thy 
friends  ;  dishonour  not  this  good  friar  whose  name 
thou  bearest,  and  so,  dear  boy,  to  bed  ;  the  morn- 
ing light  starts  you  on  your  long  journey." 

After  which  we  met  around  the  altar  of  my  little 
oratory,  which  Cicely  promised  to,  keep  as  it  is 
now  placed,  and  whereat  she  says  she  will  daily 
offer  her  prayers  for  our  safe  journeyings  and 
deliverance  from  all  dangers.  I  have  put  thereon 
my  Parian  marble  Christ,  and  above  the  altar 
hangs  sweet  St  Cecilia.  Cannot  Cicely  trace  her 
own  fair  image  in  that  lovely  form?  Will  she 
never  guess  of  all  my  tenderness,  my  faith,  my 
sacrifices,  my  cross  ?  Alas  !  never.  God  be  mer- 
ciful to  her,  my  darling,  and  comfort  her  in  this 
her  deep  sorrow  at  her  boy's  departure  and  her 
old  friend's  good-bye,  and  shield  her  from  every 
trouble,  or  gather  her  out  of  the  storm  into  the 
hollow  of  His  hand. 

I  dare  not  write  more  of  her ;  and  this  my  diary, 


336          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

in  so  far  as  it  is  the  diary  of  a  monk  of  Tavystoke 
Abbaye,  which  I  once  thought  my  diary  ever  would 
be  untp  the  end  of  my  small  earthly  life,  must 
close  now.  I  deposit  it,  along  with  one  or  two 
other  documents  of  legal  value,  and  my  copies  of 
the  old  manuscripts  concerning  our  Abbaye,  in  a 
small  iron  box,  the  key  whereof  I  shall  entrust  to 
Cicely  until  my  return  or  her  knowledge  of  my 
death.  The  curl  of  her  hair,  and  the  missal  that 
contains  on  the.  margin  the  sketch  of  her  dear  face, 
go  with  me  into  the  unknown  regions  of  the  new 
world. 

In  my  last  confidential  talk  with  Walter  Hawley, 
who  has  ever  proved  himself  so  honest  and  upright 
a  man,  and  so  sincere  in  his  friendship  towards 
myself,  I  deemed  it  right  to  entrust  him  somewhat 
with  my  views  upon  the  polity  and  the  faults  of 
our  Church,  particularly  as  he  had  confided  his 
eldest  son  to  my  care.  I  took  the  opportunity  to- 
night thus  to  open  my  mind  while  Cicely  had  gone 
to  her  boy's  room  to  pack  his  sea-chest  with  a  few 
last  things  for  his  comfort,  and  to  pour  out  to  him 
some  of  that  great  motherly  tenderness  and  affec- 
tion that  had  filled  her  eyes  with  tears,  almost 


Turning  Westward.  337 

every  time  she  had  looked  on  him  of  late,  at 
thought  of  his  departure. 

To  my  great  surprise  the  honest  miller  proved 
himself  far  more  and  better  acquainted  with  the 
pros  and  cons  of  the  whole  matter,  not  only  than 
I  had  anticipated,  but  more  than  almost  all  the 
monks  of  our  Abbaye,  who  have  so  much  leisure 
to  study,  and  might  be  supposed  to  have  so 
much  deeper  interest  in  the  questions  of  belief 
and  doctrine.  He  has  even  read  a  great  number 
of  the  writings  both  of  Martin  Luther,  and 
Erasmus,  and  Philip  Melancthon. 

"I  would  not  trouble  the  women  folk  about 
it,  Friar  Hildebrand,"  he  remarked;  "women  are 
best  when  they  'busy  themselves  least  about 
learned  questions  that  they  cannot  understand. 
Their  religion  is  all  right  mostly,  for  it  is  a 
religion  of  love  and  trust.  Cicely  would  break 
her  dear  heart,  almost,  if  she  thought  I  no  longer 
put  faith  in  confession,  and  relics,  and  indulgences, 
and  images,  and  the  like.  Women  have  queer 
little  notions  ;  they  think  better  of  us  men — monks, 
and  priests,  and  all — than  we  half  deserve,  and 
I  will  not  have  her  happiness  unsettled.  She 


33$          Friar  Hildcbrand*  s  Cross. 

cried  like  a  child  when  you  black  friars  came 
tropping  out  and  away  from  the  Abbaye  ;  but 
though  I  comforted  her  as  well  as  I  could,  and 
said  again  and  again,  as  I  patted  her  cheek, 
'  Why,  sweetheart,  one  would  think  the  mill  was 
burnt,  to  see  thy  tears  ; '  yet  I  felt  in  my  heart 
that  every  Abbaye  broken  up,  every  colony  of 
monks  turned  out  to  work  like  honest  men  for 
their  bread,  would  be  a  blessing  to  old  England. 
No  offence  to  thee,  Friar  Hildebrand,  for  thou 
hast  never  been  a  fat,  oily  monk  like  so  many 
of  thy  brethren,  shirking  labour  and  living  on 
other  people's  toil ;  and  I  love  thee  for  thy  use- 
ful life  amongst  the  poor  and  the  children,  and 
here's  my  hand." 

Whereupon  we  shook  hands  cordially.  "  If  I'd 
been  the  poorest  miller  that  ever  watched  the 
turning  of  the  millwheel,"  he  continued,  "  I  would 
not  have  accepted  thy  care  of  my  son,  nor  per- 
mitted thy  adoption  of  him,  unless  thou  hadst 
been  another  sort  of  monk  to  those  lazy  rogues 
who  have  made  just  men  so  angry.  If  'twasn't 
for  the  dear  little  wife,  I'd  call  myself  a  Protestant 
to-morrow,  and  give  my  tongue  free  scope. 


Turning  Westward.  339 

England,  be  her  soil  ever  so  rich,  can  never  afford 
to  maintain  colonies  of  idle  monks  and  priests 
upon  it." 

"Are  there  many  men  who  feel  as  thou  dost 
on  this  matter,  Walter  Hawley  ? "  I  asked,  sur- 
prised at  this  declaration  on  his  part ;  and  he 
answered : — 

"  Friar  Hildebrand,  there  will  soon  be  a  grand 
stir  and  awakening  in  this  land,  and  conflict  too, 
I  fear.  There  are  hundreds  and  thousands  of  men 
who,  thanks  to  William  Tyndale,  have  begun  to 
read  their  Bibles.  And  that  blessed  book  teaches 
freedom  from  priestly  tyranny.  It  teaches  that 
men  are  equal  in  God's  sight;  that  no  man, 
because  he  is  called  a  priest,  has  a  right  to  take 
another  man's  soul  into  his  keeping,  and  judge 
whether  that  soul  is  clean  or  unclean  before  God." 

"This  would  be  called  rank  heresy,"  said  I. 

"  A  good  many  truths  have  been  called  rank 
heresy  by  Churchmen,"  said  Walter  Hawley, 
smiling  pleasantly.  "  But  thou  thyself,  dear 
friar,  hast  never  taught  me,  when  I  confessed  to 
thee,  to  shirk  from  meeting  my  doubts ;  or  that 
thou  couldst  buy  me  off  from  the  punishment 


340          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

of  a  little  sin  with  a  few  groats,  or  of  a  great 
sin  with  a  noble.  Thou  mightest  have  been 
Martin  Luther  himself,  for  thou  wouldst  reason 
with  me,  and  not  treat  me  as  an  inferior  being, 
though,  as  thou  wert  a  monk,  that  is  what  thou 
shouldst  have  done." 

"  Truly,"  said  I,  "  I  always  feel,  and  for  very 
many  years  have  felt,  that  we  are  all  children  of 
God,  and  that  mere  accidents  of  position,  such 
as  greater  learning,  more  money,  more  time,  ex- 
alted rank,  are  but  talents  to  enable  us  to  help 
each  other,  to  minister  to  each  other — not  to  lord 
it  over  one  another,  either  in  matters  temporal  or 
spiritual." 

"  It  is  well  for  the  sake  of  the  credit  of  thy 
Church  that  thou  art  going  far  away  from  the 
conflict  that  is  coming  in  this  land,  to  preach 
to  the  heathenish  nations  of  the  earth,"  said 
Walter  Hawlcy,  "  for  in  a  very  little  time  thou 
wouldst  be  turned  out  of  her  communion,  for  thy 
too  unfettered,  too  Christian  heart  and  tongue." 

We  were  interrupted  at  this  point  by  the  return 
of  Cicely  from  the  chamber  of  her  boy,  and  our 
talk  became  more  strictly  personal. 


Turning  Westward.  341 

But  is  Walter  Hawley  right  ?  My  God  !  for- 
give me,  if  my  coward  heart  has  shrunk  from  a 
conflict  which  I  suspected  was  impending,  and 
in  which  I  ought  to  have  engaged.  How  many 
times  I  have  sympathised  with  the  tenderness  of 
the  gentle-souled  Philip  Melancthon,  who  has 
proved  himself  so  anxious  for  peace  amidst  the 
storm  of  religious  dissensions  and  broils  in  Ger- 
many. 

If  the  words  of  honest  Walter  Hawley  be  in- 
deed prophetic  of  that  which  shall  come  to  pass, 
and  my  own  dear  country,  whose  shores  I  shall 
soon  leave,  must  be  given  up  ere  long  to  the 
storm  of  a  religious  revolution,  I  ask  for  her  but 
one  thing,  that  God,  who  is  the  Truth,  may  mani- 
fest Himself  to  her  more  clearly,  till  upon  her 
shall  arise  the  glory  of  a  perfect  day  of  freedom. 

A  day  in  which  man  shall  cease  to  regard  his 
fellow  as  the  slave  of  creed  or  priest  ;  a  day  when 
no  hard-and-fast  line  shall  be  drawn  between 
layman  and  ecclesiastic  ;  but  when  both  shall  be 
regarded  alike,  if  devout  men,  as  "  kings  and 
priests  unto  God " ;  a  day  when  the  soul  shall 
rise  unfettered  from  its  man-made  trammels ;  a 


34 2          Friar  Hildebrand^s  Cross. 

day  when  the  Scriptures — God's  gift  to  the  whole 
world  of  His  fallen,  erring  children — shall  be  in 
the  hands  of  each  man,  woman,  and  child  to  study 
for  him  or  herself.  When  all  who  believe  simply 
that  Christ  is  the  "  Way,  the  Truth,  and  the  Life," 
and  that  faith  in  Him  alone  justifies  us  in  God's 
sight,  may  clasp  hands  lovingly. 

And  if  because  our  hearts  are  hard,  and  our 
feet  turned  out  of  the  way,  the  path  to  this  blessed 
day  shall  be  made  ghastly  with  fierce  combat, 
with  bones,  and  blood,  and  fire,  with  persecutions, 
and  deadly  feuds,  oh !  Eternal  Father,  have  pity ; 
have  pity  on  the  poor  people — alike  on  persecutor 
and  persecuted  ;  and  grant  that  everlasting  truth 
may  conquer,  and  falsehood  and  superstition  be 
laid  low.  Amen 


HERE,   THE   CROSS!    THERE, 
THE   CROWN  1 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

HERE,    THE   CROSS!     THERE,    THE   CROWN  I 

(NOTE,  written  for  Cicely  Hawley  (who  cannot 
write)  by  her  son  Hildebrand.) 

May  2Oth,  1559. — But  a  week  ago,  my  dear  son 
Hildebrand,  whom  I  had  long  ago  given  up  for 
dead,  returned  to  me ;  he  found  me  still  here  in 
this  same  dwelling  of  the  Abbaye  Mills,  though 
bereft  of  my  dearly  beloved  spouse  and  his  dear 
father,  Walter  Hawley. 

My  son  Walter  now  manages  the  mills,  and 
allows  me  an  ample  maintenance  therefrom,  with 
rooms  sufficient  for  myself  and  my  two  girls. 
Judith  and  Betty,  who  are  all  now  remaining  with 
me  of  my  large  family,  the  rest  being  all  married 
but  Hildebrand,  and  diversely  scattered,  save  my 
darling  crippled  Arthur,  and  the  little  babe  Wini- 
fred, that  I  buried  late  in  the  autumn  of  that 
same  year  when  dear  Friar  Hildebrand  and  my 

345 


346  Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

eldest  son  went  away ;  who  lie  so  quietly  waiting 
for  the  resurrection  in  the  Abbaye  churchyard, 
beside  whom  their  father  now  sleeps  these  eight 
long  years. 

There  have  been  many  wondrous  changes  in  this 
our  land  since  the  time  when  the  Black  Monks 
flourished  in  our  Abbaye.  Now  the  whole  nation 
fast  turns  Protestant,  because  our  new  Queen 
Elizabeth  belongs  to  that  faith  ;  but  every  one  who 
minds  to  live  peaceably  and  orderly,  without  trying 
to  injure  the  Queen  upon  her  throne,  which  God 
and  the  saints  forbid,  worships,  if  they  be  so 
minded,  without  molestation,  according  to  the  old 
faith — the  faith  of  their  fathers.  I  have  preserved, 
unaltered,  as  I  promised  him,  the  little  altar  of  the 
good  Friar  Hildebrand,  together  with  his  picture 
of  the  holy  St.  Cecilia,  which  Walter  always  did 
declare  resembles  me,  although  I  formerly  thought 
this  but  mere  accident ;  and  the  dear  Saviour 
on  the  Cross  in  marble  of  rarest  workmanship. 
Here  have  I  come  day  by  day,  to  offer  up  my 
prayers  for  my  darling  boy  and  the  good  true 
friend  to  whom  I  have  entrusted  him  ;  and  I  kept 
the  key  of  Friar  Hildebrand's  small  iron  box, 


Here,  the  Cross!    There,  the  Crown!     347 

along  with  all  my  house  keys,  and  never  guessed 
what  was  shut  within,  in  the  many  closely  written 
pages  of  manuscript,  which  Hildebrand  and  I  have 
but  now  finished  reading  together.  My  eyes  are 
so  red  with  weeping,  and  my  heart  feels  so  full  of 
sorrow  at  all  the  good  monk's  trouble  in  the  past, 
and  his  passion  and  true  love  for  me,  of  which  I 
then  and  for  so  long  knew  nothing,  that  I  am  alto- 
gether overcome. 

The  manner  of  the  dear  friar's  death  was  on  this 
wise,  as  Hildebrand,  who  remained  with  him  to  the 
very  last,  tells  me.  His  death  happened  full  ten 
years  back,  while  I  have  been  praying  many  and 
many  a  time  for  his  deliverance  from  danger, 
not  knowing  that  already  Christ  had  delivered 
him. 

Hildebrand  says  it  was  a  very  lovely  spot  at 
which  he  died,  and  that  would  suit  him  well,  for  he 
ever  loved  flowers,  and  birds,  and  sunshine,  above 
most  men.  My  son  says  he  had  had  appointed 
to  him  by  one  of  the  Jesuit  Fathers  a  little  dwell- 
ing near  the  city  of  Cempoalla,  which  the  great 
Spanish  commander  Cortez  took  possession  of  for 

the    Spanish   crown,    Hildebrand    says,    full   forty 

23 


348          Friar  Hildcbrand's  Cross. 

years  agone,  and  that  it  now  has  a  settlement  of 
white  men.  The  land  thereabouts  is  strangely  rich 
and  fertile,  producing  throughout  the  whole  year 
an  abundance  of  flowers  and  fruits ;  for,  unlike 
unto  us  in  England,  they  have  no  winter  to  check 
the  growth  of  plants,  and  to  ofttimes  kill  the 
tender  flowers.  The  Indians  who  dwelt  here  were 
always  a  tender-natured  people,  my  Hildebrand 
says,  although  they  used  formerly  to  offer  men 
and  women  and  children  in  sacrifice  to  their  gods. 
This  seems  to  me  most  difficult  of  belief,  how 
gentle-hearted  people  should  force  themselves  to 
such  barbarities,  but  I  am  assured  of  it  by  my 
dear  son,  who  ever  speaks  and  has  ever  spoken 
nought  but  the  truth  to  me.  Here  Friar  Hilde- 
brand liked  well  to  make  his  abode,  and  here 
amongst  the  Indians  he  wrought  a  great  work,  for 
he  baptized  abundance  of  converts  to  the  faith  of 
Christ  He  had  erected  outside  of  his  dwelling  a 
large  cross  of  pure  silver,  a  precious  metal  to  be 
had  quite  commonly  in  that  favoured  land,  which 
he  adorned  every  morning  with  new  flowers,  deep 
red  roses,  and  the  golden  stars  of  the  twining 
jessamine,  and  under  which  he  stood  day  by  day 


Here,  the  Cross  /   There,  the  Crown !    349 

to  preach  the  Gospel  of  Christ  to  listening  crowds 
of  the  dark-hued  Indians,  as  I  mind  me  well  he 
used  to  preach  in  the  villages  around  our  Abbaye 
of  Tavystoke,  long  before.  And  his  own  life,  so 
good,  so  gentle,  so  patient,  so  pure,  preached  ever, 
says  my  Hildebrand,  still  holier  sermons  to  the 
people  of  Cempoalla.  Also  he  went  about  among 
the  sick,  and  did  much  good  to  many,  raising 
many  to  health  from  their  beds  of  languishing,  and 
sat  by  the  dying  through  the  hot  and  weary  nights 
of  those  regions,  speaking  peace  unto  the  soul  as 
it  passed  away  to  the  eternal  world.  Surely  I 
need  not  to  be  told  how  skilful  the  good  friar 
ever  was,  as  doctor  and  nurse,  for  did  he  not  in 
my  sore  strait  when  my  Walter  was  ill  of  fever, 
and  not  long  before  my  little  Hildebrand  was 
born,  take  every  care  from  me,  and  tend  him  like 
a  woman,  thoughtless  of  his  own  health,  and  even 
his  own  life  ? 

All  this  happened  to  him  abroad,  while  my 
Hildebrand  worked  at  some  silver  mines  at  no 
great  distance  from  this  fair  city  of  Cempoalla, 
and  stored  up  for  himself  ample  treasures,  living 
much  of  his  time  with  the  dear  friar,  who  never 


35O          Friar  Hildebrand's  Cross. 

ceased  to  be  to  him  the  father,  the  guardian,  the 
counsellor,  the  friend,  he  promised  us  he  would  be 
to  our  adventurous  boy.  So  the  years  passed 
away,  until  the  month  of  May  in  the  year  1549, 
when  the  dear  friar  sickened  of  a  malady  common 
to  those  parts,  attended  by  much  fever  and  pain, 
through  all  which  he  but  increased  more  and  more 
in  patience  and  heavenly  virtue.  And,  first  of  all, 
he  entreated  my  Hildebrand  to  leave  him  and 
secure  his  own  safety ;  but  finding  that  he  would 
not  go  (and  sorry  should  I  be  to  call  him  my 
son,  had  he  done  so),  he  accepted  every  attention 
rendered  to  him,  as  soothing  balm  unto  his  heart 

And  no  sooner  had  the  Indians  knowledge  of  his 
state,  than  they  gathered  around  his  dwelling,  and 
offered  many  prayers  before  the  silver  cross,  in  the 
name  of  Christ  our  Saviour,  for  the  recovery  of 
their  beloved  priest  and  friend.  But  it  was  not  the 
will  of  God  that  these  their  supplications  should 
be  of  any  avail ;  and  as  I  read  the  diary  of  Friar 
Hildebrand,  which  has  been  so  long  laid  by  in  his 
small  iron  box,  and  learn  to  know  all  that  he  has 
so  bravely  suffered  for  my  sake,  and  for  the  up- 
holding of  purity  and  truth  and  the  just  main- 


Here,  the  Cross !   There,  the  Crown  /    351 

tenance  of  his  solemn  vows,  I  feel  that  it  was  God 
who  saw  that  His  servant  had  carried  the  iron 
cross  on  his  breast,  and  that  heavier  cross  in  his 
heart,  long  enough,  and  exchanged  both  the  one 
and  the  other  for  the  golden  crown  of  His  glory. 

So  now,  being  very  weary  and  ill,  he  lay  on  his 
couch  in  his  garden,  amongst  the  honeysuckles  and 
roses,  and  the  variegated  convolvulus,  and  the 
gaudy  hued  parasite  plants  that  creep  up  every 
great  tree,  while  the  mocking-bird  and  the  scarlet 
cardinal,  both  of  whose  songs  are  very  sweet,  and 
the  gaily  plumaged  parrots  flew  about,  together 
with  beauteous  humming-birds  and  butterflies  of 
every  variety  and  shade  of  colour  ;  all  which  dear 
Friar  Hildebrand  delighted  to  point  out  to  my  son, 
for  he  ever  had  an  artist's  eye,  as  he  makes  known 
unto  us  who  read  his  diary,  and  unto  all  who  ever 
listened  to  his  eloquent  words  concerning  God's 
beautiful  world ;  as  well  as  all  who  watched  him, 
as  I  have  done,  in  the  far-away  past,  when  I  was 
but  a  very  young  maiden,  and  he  was  busy 
illuminating  his  missals  and  other  manuscripts. 

He  lay  upon  his  couch  with  flowers  around  him 
and  in  his  hands  on  that  May  morning,  and 


35 2  Friar  Hildebrand*  s  Cross. 

handled  first  one  and  then  the  other  as  he  told 
my  Hildebrand  the  story  of  that  May  in  Devon- 
shire when  his  mother  was  made  the  Queen, 
all  the  particulars  of  which  fair  spring  day,  even 
to  my  words  about  the  May  dew,  he  had  treasured 
up,  dear  heart,  in  his  diary.  A  day  it  is,  too, 
which  I  have  ever  remembered,  for  that  my 
Walter  first  thought  of  loving  me  on  that  day. 
And  then  he  told  my  Hildebrand  many  particulars 
concerning  the  Abbaye  of  Tavystoke,  and  added 
how  that  in  a  certain  iron  box  of  his  would  be 
found  various  entertaining  manuscripts,  written  out 
by  his  own  hand  touching  its  foundation,  copied 
from  ancient  parchments  he  had  come  upon  in  the 
said  Abbaye.  Then  he  added  in  a  tone  almost  of 
humiliation,  "And  whoso  opens  that  box,  my  dear 
Hildebrand,  will  likewise  find  in  it  my  diary,  and 
if  thou  openest  it,  start  not  at  the  confessions  of 
its  pages,  Hildebrand  ;  I  am  a  man  as  well  as  a 
monk  ;  the  passions  of  humanity  are  not  extinct, 
though  they  may  be  stifled,  under  a  friar's  gown  ; 
be  not  surprised,  dear  lad,  if  thou  findest  therein 
the  records  of  a  passionate  love  for  thy  sweet 
mother  ;  let  it  not  trouble  thee,  my  son,  she  has 


Here,  the  Cross!   There,  the  Crown!    353 

never  known  it,  never  guessed  it,  and  unless 

ah  !  well,  I  leave  it  to  thee,  Hildebrand.  If  when 
thou  returnest  thou  findest  her  alive,  and  seest  well 
to  let  her  likewise  read  the  diary,  be  it  so ;  the 
flowers  will  bloom  then  upon  my  grave,  and  if  she 
but  turns  one  tenderer  thought  unto  me  for  the 
knowledge  that  cometh  unto  her  heart  so  late,  it 
will,  methinks,  make  even  Paradise  more  fair." 

And  then  he  drew  out  by  a  cord  from  his  bosom 
a  little  curl  of  hair,  and  showed  it  to  my  son,  and 
restored  it  to  its  place,  while  he  bid  him  to  bury 
it  where  it  had  lain  so  long.  I  mind  me  well  how 
he  got  possession  of  that  little  curl,  although  I 
never  guessed  it  did  more  than  serve  the  turn  he 
asked  it  for ;  he  painted  once  a  woman's  hair 
while  I  stood  by  him  in  that  cell  of  his  in  which 
he  wrote  and  painted,  and  he  said  unto  me, 
"  Cicely,  dear  child,  I  want  to  match  the  colour  of 
thy  hair  with  my  paints  for  the  hair  of  this  fair 
adye's  head;  wilt  give  me  a  stray  lock?"  and  I 
most  willingly  consented,  for  that  I  was  then 
somewhat  proud  of  my  abundance  of  light  brown 
ringlets  (they  are  fast  silvering  now),  so  he  cut  off 
one  gravely  and  laid  it  on  his  easel.  Alack-a-tiay ! 


354  Friar  Hildebrand' s  Cross. 

he  must  thence  have  laid  it  on  his  heart  and  have 
had  it  travel  thus  with  him,  till  it  lies  mouldering 
along  with  his  gracious  kindly  form  and  handsome 
face  close  by  the  Indian  city  of  Cempoalla.  And 
then  he  showed  to  my  Hildebrand  a  page  of  the 
missal  he  always  used  in  his  devotions,  and  which 
he  took  now  from  where  it  lay  beside  him  on  his 
couch,  and  pointed  out  to  him  on  one  of  the  pages 
a  face  that  made  my  boy  utter  an  exclamation  of 
surprise,  for  he  knew  it  at  once  as  the  face  of  his 
mother  in  her  youth.  "  Hildebrand,"  said  the 
dying  friar,  "  that  face  haunts  my  vision  waking 
and  sleeping  of  late,  as  it  did  in  the  old  Abbaye 
years  ago  beside  the  murmuring  Tavy,  and 
amongst  the  boughs  of  the  old  oak  ;  and  when  I 
next  °,ee  it,  it  will  shine  with  heavenly  brightness, 
and  I  shall  never  miss  it  again — never  more  pine, 
but  to  gaze  upon  it  for  one  short  hour,  for  it  will 
be  with  me  through  all  the  blessed  ages  of  eternity. 
If  thou  dost  ever  see  her  again,  Hildebrand,  tell 
this  to  thy  mother  ;  tell  her  that  her  image,  like  a 
star  in  the  dark  sky  of  night,  shone  upon  my  life 
and  guided  me  and  abode  with  me  through  all 
these  years  in  Cempoalla,  as  it  has  done  ever  since 


Here,  the  Cross!   There,  the  Crown!    355 

I  first  knew  her  in  the  beloved  old  Tavy stoke. 
Tell  her,  too,  that  my  love  for  her  made  me  love 
and  honour  also  thy  most  worthy  father,  Walter 
Hawley,  who  cherished  towards  me,  as  I  to  him, 
an  honest  regard  and  affection.  Do  not  mourn 
me,  my  son,  mourn  not  when  the  cross  is  lifted, 
and  the  crown  set  upon  my  brow  ;  death  comes 
as  an  angel  of  mercy,  an  ambassador  of  God,  thai 
opens  for  me  the  new,  fair  world  of  heaven,  and 
brings  me  honours  from  my  King.  All  my  life  I 
have  loved  the  countless  glories  which  our  Father 
gives  us  in  this  world,  and  yet  I  know  that,  even 
going  as  I  do  from  amidst  all  this  magnificence 
and  beauty,"  and  thereupon  he  glanced  around  on 
the  luxurious  growth  and  gorgeous  colouring  of 
his  Mexican  home,  "  Heaven  will  burst  upon  my 
enraptured  sight  with  such  a  wealth  of  loveliness 
that  my  soul  will  pause  upon  the  very  threshold 
to  breathe  its  first  rapturous  breath,  ere  it  dare 
proceed  further  within  the  pearly  gates.  The  pre- 
sence of  God,  of  Christ,  of  the  just  men  made 
perfect — think  of  it,  Hildebrand,  how  this  must 
glorify  the  beauty  of  all  things." 

So,  with  high  and  holy  converse,  the  two  talked 


356  Friar  Hildebrand' s  Cross. 

together  in  the  garden  till  the  evening  drew  nigh, 
when  suddenly  Friar  Hildebrand,  who  had  lain 
silent  for  a  little  space,  and  apparently  exhausted, 
turned  himself  somewhat,  and  gazed  upwards  into 
the  blaze  of  carmine  and  golden  glory  in  the 
heavens  above  him. 

"  Cicely,"  he  murmured  softly,  "  love  is  stronger 
than  death ; "  and  then  he  turned  again  to  my 
Hildebrand  with  a  smile  of  unutterable  and  playful 
sweetness,  as  if  he  guessed  he  had  heard  these 
words.  Whereat  my  boy  pressed  dear  Friar  Hil- 
debrand's  hands,  and  smiled  likewise,  though  the 
fast-falling  tears  coursed  each  other  down  his 
cheeks.  The  dear  saint,  now  too  weak  to  speak, 
pointed  upwards  again,  and  so  lay  for  many 
minutes.  Suddenly  he  cried  in  a  loud,  distinct 
voice — "  My  blessed  Saviour  Christ !  Behold  !  my 
crown ! "  and  so  died.  Then  the  sun  sank  sud- 
denly behind  the  hills,  and  darkness  shrouded  the 
beautiful  garden,  and  the  gentle  face  of  dear  Friar 
Hildebrand,  now  pale  in  death. 

My  son  buried  him  amongst  the  lovely  flowers, 
and  under  the  luxuriant  trees  of  that  garden,  with 
the  curl  of  hair  upon  his  breast,  and  the  missal, 


Here,  the  Cross!   There,  the  Crown!    357 

open  at  the  picture,  beside  him  in  the  coffin  ;  and 
many  of  the  Indians  came  to  the  funeral  obsequies, 
which  were  performed  by  a  priest  who  lived  not 
far  distant ;  and  they  helped  to  chant  requiems 
for  the  dear  soul  that  had  departed,  and  masses 
were  said  to  free  him  from  purgatory.  But  my 
Ilildebrand  thinks,  and  I  think  so  too,  that  his 
soul  was  cleansed  here  below  by  his  faith  in  Christ, 
and  that  he  showed  this,  by  his  patiently  borne 
trials ;  and  also  that  he  lived  too  near  heaven  for 
his  soul  to  tarry  in  its  homeward  flight  Requies- 
cat  in  pace. 

As  for  the  Abbaye  of  Tavystoke,  with  all  its 
lands  and  belongings,  it  has  been  these  many  years 
past  in  the  hands  of  the  Russells,  to  whom  the 
king,  Henry  VIII.,  gave  it — a  family  of  much 
honour  and  repute,  whereof  the  chief  member  is 
the  Duke  of  Bedford.  But  for  the  town  itself,  the 
destruction  of  the  Abbaye,  as  an  abode  of  religious 
men,  has  brought  much  present  impoverishment 
and  decay — the  schools,  and  the  printing  press, 
and  many  another  good  thing  to  which  the  monks 
gave  diligent  heed,  have  almost  come  to  nought 
through  neglect,  and  suffer  by  any  comparison 


358          Friar  HildebrancVs  Cross. 

with  that  flourishing  state  in  which  they  existed 
in  the  days  of  the  dear  Friar  Hilclebrand  ;  but  my 
husband  thought  all  would  be  prosperous  again 
when  the  state  of  religion  was  once  more  settled, 
and  my  Walter  knew  most  things.  I  could  say 
much  more  respecting  the  adventures  of  my  dear 
son  Hildebrand,  who  even  now  contents  not  him- 
self at  Tavystoke,  but  sails  again  shortly  for  the 
new  world  of  America  ;  and  of  his  great  riches 
which  he  has  attained  unto  by  the  honest  labour  of 
his  own  hands,  and  no  small  share  of  which  he  has 
bestowed  upon  me,  so  that  to  my  great  joy  I  shall 
be  able  largely  to  help  the  poor  and  sick  with 
this  his  bounty.  But  my  Hildebrand  bids  me  to 
refrain  from  adding  hereto,  this  being  but  a  record 
touching  that  holy  man  of  God,  Friar  Hildebrand, 
which  serves  to  explain  what  was  his  after-life, 
when  he  parted  from  us  to  go  beyond  the  seas. 
This  his  whole  history  is  to  my  mind  of  so  beau- 
tiful and  touching  a  nature,  that  I  am  minded  it 
shall,  after  I  am  dead  and  gone,  descend  unto  my 
dear  children  and  grandchildren,  to  instruct  them 
how  to  live  as  in  the  fear  of  God  by  conquering 
seif  and  making  others  happy,  by  bearing  the  iron 


Here,  the  Cross!  There,  the  Crown!    359 

cross  and  walking  steadfastly  towards  the  golden 
crown. 

But  for  the  present,  because  of  the  tender  nature 
of  the  love  he  bore  to  me,  the  which  I  was  so 
unworthy  of,  as  well  as  of  that  affectionate  heart 
of  my  dear  husband,  Walter  Hawley,  which  turned 
to  me  so  many  years  ago,  and  which  I  rested  in 
without  a  doubt  or  misgiving  ever  after ;  because 
of  this  I  am  minded,  and  my  dear  son  Hilde- 
brand  agrees  to  my  request,  that  he  should  keep 
the  secret  he  has  had  entrusted  unto  him,  and  not 
reveal  aught  till  my  body  rests  beside  my  dearly 
loved  husband  and  my  two  children  in  the  church- 
yard of  the  old  Abbaye. 


THE  END. 


ooo 


127 


